


The Last Laugh Is On Me

by amanounmei



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-05
Updated: 2013-02-05
Packaged: 2017-11-23 19:43:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 52,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/625853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amanounmei/pseuds/amanounmei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Joker has a new plan. This time, it will not only break the Bat, but give him his heart's desire...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Poison

_I hear you calling and it's needles and pins (And pins)_

_I want to hurt you just to hear you screaming my name_

_Don't want to touch you but you're under my skin (Deep in)_

_I want to kiss you but your lips are venomous poison_

\- Poison, **Alice Cooper**

 

The more things change, the more they stay the same.

Some say Gotham City could never change. That it would always be the sewer of society, filled with almost nothing but lowest scum and greatest villainy the modern world has known. And that was true; for some reason the city seemed not only to have a weird tendency to breed criminals of the rather uncommon kind, it also did well with attracting those that began elsewhere. And as soon as one was stopped, another rose to take their place and fill the vacuum in the local underworld. In a way, while faces and names were new, the state of affairs did not change. It was true.

But to say that nothing moved on would be lying. It did not take much; just one moment to look away, and when you turn back, you see something different. The Scarecrow no longer in the Asylum, having broken out again. Some rich person's wife abducted for ransom. An accident in a chemical processing plant. New names in high places, new buildings, facilities, events. If you did not pay attention, you could easily get lost in the chaos. Because Gotham never waited for anyone. It just changed, day by day. That was also true.

Most people did not give this too much thought; it was confusing, and if you focused on it too hard, it could get to you. One of those few that embraced this truth about the city was also its self-proclaimed protector, the one some feared, some shunned and some even respected.

The Batman.

As he looked down onto the dirty alley, he could not help but remember. He always remembered. Down there, in Park Row, was where the worst day of his life took place. He revisited the same spot every year, and each time he wondered if any of this makes any sense. With all that he is doing to stop the same thing from happening to anyone else, there is just as much – perhaps even more – crime than there was back then. Park Row is still called Crime Alley more often than not, Blackgate and Arkham filled to the limits... and each time, each night, there was another. Robbery. Theft. Rape. Murder.

Gotham never changed.

But this time Batman did not bring roses with himself. It was not the day nor the time. And even though he wished to spend a few more moments down there, paying respects to those he lost, that would have to wait. He had it on good authority – his own, of course – that somewhere here, most likely in one of the abandoned buildings, he could find the Joker. Or at least someone who could tell him where he is. In a strange sort of way, it made sense. The place had nothing to do with the Joker – no previous crimes, no amusement facilities, no fun houses. Nothing to hint that he could be there.

But he was. All Batman could catch was a glimpse, but there was no mistake – the purple suit, the characteristically thin frame, green hair. As soon as the figure disappeared behind a slightly creaking door, the Knight followed. Carefully, of course – stopping before the door to check for whatever might be behind them. Treading as quietly as he possibly could.

The place he found himself in was identical to hundreds of abandoned apartments he has seen over the years. The city was chock full of this kind of buildings, in every district. It was empty, but not entirely; it had a piece or two of old wooden furniture, so long forgotten that it started rotting away. As did the floor, apparently; it no longer creaked under his heavy boots, and a part of him wondered whether it will break under his weight.

It did not, fortunately, and following the sound of Joker's steps he descended into the basement. Of course it had to be the basement. Darkness he can deal with, he is equipped to handle it. But a confined space with little to no windows and only one escape route could only spell trouble.

And he went down anyway.

Slowly, with a batarang in hand, he descended the steps that, unlike most everything else in the building, were made of stone. Much to his surprise the lights were already on, and the Joker was just standing there, between crates and cardboard boxes, in that trademark pose of his. Leaned casually against the cold wall, arms crossed on his chest and that wide grin on his face.

“Hey, Bats!” he called as soon as he saw the black boots stepping into the light. “Long time no see!”

“I'd prefer it to stay that way,” the Batman said in his usual low, unamused tone. “So, where's the catch?”

The Joker raised his eyebrows, a look of almost genuine surprise crossing his face. “Catch?”

“This,” the knight waved his free hand. “You're down here, all alone. What's the surprise? Explosives? Hidden gun? Or your trademark gas?”

“Awww, Batsy,” the clown made a pouting face, which must have been mocking – right? - and did not seem to move the cloaked man at all. “You're hurting my feelings! How could you even consider that?”

The Crusader allowed himself a small frown under the mask, but stuffed the batarang away back into his belt nonetheless. “Perhaps because you have a track record of doing that a lot. Every single time, in fact.”

“Not this time, Batman,” the Joker replied, straightening up and spreading his arms wide as if to show that he truly was just as unarmed as he seemed. “I arranged for this so we could talk. Just you and me, face to mask.”

The Knight eyed him slowly, but only to postpone his answer. He knew that man well enough. He has beheld that thin figure more times than he would want, too many times did he gaze into those deep eyes and heard that maddening laugh. Finally, having reconsidered what he could say, he decided on: “Talk. I gave you many chances to say your piece, Joker, and you never took them. You turned it all into a joke.”

The red grin widened at that. “That's what I do, Bats! But I didn't go through all this trouble and lured you here to joke around.” As he said that, his voice dropped in pitch, along with the corners of his lips as the grin disappeared almost instantly. “Oh, no, not you. You never laugh.”

“I could. I might. But somehow murder doesn't strike me as funny.”

He expected the Joker to laugh. He expected that maniacal, shrieking laughter to echo through the basement. He also expected the clown to poke around the wounds that most hurt, the wound named Robin in particular. But none of that came. With this man, if he still could be called that, the only thing you can expect is the unexpected.

“Is that why you refuse to kill me?” he asked, his lips curling up once more, but this time into a rather sinister smirk. “You know as well as I do that if you want to stop me, you'll have to do better than putting me behind the revolving doors in Arkham. Or...” he cut, approaching the costumed man even despite the initial reaction to reach for a batarang again. The Joker paused merely a step away. “Perhaps there's some other reason behind this?”

There certainly was, Batman told himself, but it was not for the criminal world to know. He knew exactly why he was doing what he was doing, and even why he pulled others into his private crusade. There was nothing more to it than Joe Chill and Crime Alley.

Or that was what he kept telling himself.

The clown finally laughed that chilling laughter of his. “Silent as always! That's why I like you, Bats, you're the perfect listener!” With this, he started circling the other man. Walking around him in that overblown, cliché fashion that all villains use... but that was the Joker's trademark. Turning clichés into the unexpected. “How many times have we told you this, Batsy?” he asked, meeting the eyes that followed him as much as they could.

“Told me what?” the Batman finally spoke, breaking his own silence. “The reason for me fighting you?”

“That exactly!” the other clapped his hands. “How many times have we pointed out that you're dressing up just like a lot of us Arkham residents? The Scarecrow, the Mad Hatter. Me. How many times have we said you're obsessed just like Zsasz, the Riddler? Me. How many times have we told you that you,” he stopped right in front of the Knight, smirking “are just as insane as we are?”

What he met in response were those deep, blue eyes glaring at him from below the black mask. Eyes that tried to drill through him and met the same barrier they always did. Randomness. Unpredictability. Strange, scary sanity beneath a layer of insanity. “I'm not you, Joker,” Batman said slowly, as if carefully picking the words. “I am _nothing_ like you.”

“Oh, okay, so you don't kill,” the clown waved his hands in a dismissive, somewhat exasperated manner. “You beat us senseless instead, big deal.” There, he paused again, and that smirk crept back onto his features again... but this time with a clearly dark shadow beneath it. “You know how many bones you broke in poor old Penguin last time, right? How is that any different to what I did to your Toy Wonder?”

He did not have to wait for a reaction, and it was exactly what he expected. Batman launched himself at the clown, fists first, and made sure they met the white jaw. Joker tried avoiding the blows, but both of them knew his chances were slim, what with him being smaller, thinner and generally weaker than the vigilante. He never pulled his punches, but this time it seemed like he was putting extra effort into each one, making them hurt even more.

Eventually, after but a few moments that seemed much longer than they really were, the Joker found himself pressed against a wall; blood trickled down his face, but he was quite used to that by now. And he was used to the pain, too, even though it made itself very apparent to him. What he was _not_ used to, however, was that... fire in Batman's eyes. A spark he has seldom – if ever? - seen in them. Anger he noticed before. Determination was always there. Sometimes even a deep sadness made it to the surface. But this... this was fury.

Madness.

“How _dare_ you,” the Knight growled, his voice balancing on the line between human and feral. “You all had it coming! I wouldn't touch you had you renounced your life of crime! And he- Robin-”

Joker could not help but grin inwardly at the fact that his foe, even in a state like this, managed to keep enough control to hide the boy's real identity under that birdy alias of his. “And the Robin was innocent,” he said “except for all the beatings he was guilty of. Look at yourself, Bats, here you are, beating the living and unliving daylights out of an unarmed opponent. Again.”

Batman's grip on the clown seemed to loosen up a little bit, but just for a fraction of a second before he recomposed himself. He could not let the words get to him. It was just another trick, another sick joke to try and make him lose his mind...

“Not exactly fair, is it?” the Joker asked, breaking the sudden silence.

“Not like you ever gave anyone a fair fighting chance,” the other man said in his trademark harsh voice, narrowing his eyes under the mask.

A wide grin was the first response. “You're learning, Batsy!” he exclaimed. “But not fast enough. Oh, what a grand opportunity you have now... to end this little rollercoaster of ours. No more ups and downs, no more me breaking out of Arkham and killing your boys,” he paused for a moment, seeing that strange, alien fire reignite in Batman's eyes. “All you have to do is finish me.”

The next moment felt as if time stopped around the two of them; there was almost tangible silence, something thick in the air that made it harder to breathe, and sudden eerie, creepy emptiness, as if the notion of how alone they are finally got to them. The Dark Knight's mind was racing. Yes, he could do it. He could end Joker's rampage right there, right then. He could make sure no one else gets hurt... no more Barbaras in wheelchairs, no more Jasons bludgeoned to within an inch of their life.

But if he did it... if he suspended his most fundamental rule just this once, that would open a gate for him to do it again. For if he found one exception, he would easily find another. And another. And then, there would be no turning back. And that, in turn, would make him no better than all the maniacs he has ever put behind bars in Arkham Asylum, or Blackgate. No better than Bane. Than Killer Croc. Mad Hatter, Penguin, Two-Face.

He would be just as insane as the Joker.

Not to mention he would betray the trust of those that cared for him, and that he cared for. James Gordon tolerated his operation only as long as he was on the right side of the law. Only as long as he did not break it. Murder would certainly be against it, no matter how much the victim deserved death. And what about his family? Alfred, Dick, Tim? What would they think of him?

“But no,” the Joker continued, yet again being the one to speak in the overwhelming lack of sound. “You won't do it, and do you know why?”

Of course he did, the Batman thought, but before he managed to form a coherent answer that would cover for all the images of his friends and family flashing through his mind, the clown made another move. He leaned forward, bringing his lips within merely an inch of the other man's pointy ear, and whispered: “Because you need me.”

And then, time sped up again as the Joker claimed his enemy's lips in a kiss. Much to the surprise of both of them, the Knight could not force himself to pull away. Perhaps it was because it felt like a fraction of a second, or perhaps it had something to do with the fact that he parted his own lips to deepen the kiss. He was pulled closer to the criminal, and as their bodies touched, the clown could not help but laugh as he felt something hardening against him.

Batman did not seem amused by the reaction, however. He knew well that something was not right; his mind was scrambled and he lost the clarity of thought that got him through many a peril before. He lost the ability to form coherent sentences, so instead of speaking, he acted. And he knew that whatever caused this was not the sudden rush of blood to his groin. There was more to it, but then, there, he could not name it.

He turned the Joker around so that he faced the wall and pressed him against it again, all the time accompanied by a quiet, unnerving giggle. Whatever was going through the clown's head amused him to no end, and infuriated the Crusader even more. It was true, he needed him... but he was not sure how. Why. He wanted to be close to him. He wanted to hurt him for all that he has done.

In fact, he could do both.

The Joker did not struggle. He did not even utter a protest as Batman simply undid his belt and yanked his pants down, letting them drop to the floor. He heard a quiet yelp as he unceremoniously pushed into the other man and started moving his hips, at a surprisingly slow pace.

But what was even more surprising was that the criminal, even though clearly in pain, seemed to be enjoying himself. He bit his own arm through the trademark purple suit, but muffled moans escaped him as well. If the Knight bothered, he would also notice that the Joker was, in fact, very much erect despite the pain.

But he did not bother, his mind even more clouded than a moment before. There he was, holding the Joker, the _Joker_ , to himself as he took him in a moment of sudden, unexpected passion. He barely realized that he was _having sex with his worst enemy_. Something in the back of his head tried to kick him hard, make him understand just what was happening, make him stop before another threshold is crossed. But he refused to listen, lost in the bliss as he gradually sped up. The quiet voice in his head was finally silenced by the moans and groans and gasps he earned in response to what he did.

The clown eventually decided to help himself, seeing as the Bat was not really eager to, and brought a hand to his own erection. He rubbed himself, trying to match the other man's pace. He really did not mind the pain; he has had his share in life, not just physical, and was quite able to overcome it. It helped to feel the hot breath on his neck and the hardness so deep inside him.

Oh, and if the Batman knew how this was to end...

Whatever the end was supposed to be, it came much too soon. The Joker bit his arm again as he felt himself spill into his own hand, and he shivered slightly, barely visibly, as the Knight filled him merely a moment after. They remained there for a longer while, panting, neither of them breaking away from the other as they tried to compose themselves in the afterglow.

As their lips met again, Batman suddenly regained the much-needed clarity of thought and pushed the clown away from himself, stepping back. The reality of what just transpired made itself painfully apparent to him, and burnt itself in his memory right next to all those other events he could never seem to forget. It happened. It really did happen.

And he enjoyed it.

Joker burst out laughing as he redressed himself, his pants already dirty from the basement floor that has not been cleaned for possibly years. “Not bad, Batsy, not bad!” he grinned, making a step towards the cloaked man. The cloaked man that, being alone and with no other witness, was suddenly unable to hide the feelings of embarrassment and guilt that crept onto his features.

“Next time consider flowers, though,” the criminal nodded. “They make things more romantic, they say, and much... easier.”

With that, he reached to the fake flower that he always had in the front pocket of his suit and squeezed it. This time what it produced was a puff of smoke, right in the face of Batman. The confusion hindered him enough for the smoke to get into his system, and before he knew it, everything went black.


	2. Feel For You

_Barely cold in her grave_

_Barely warm in my bed_

_Settling for a draw tonight_

_Puppet girl, your strings are mine_

\- Feel For You, **Nightwish**

 

Batman groaned loudly, his head spinning. He tried to pull himself up from wherever he was laying even before his vision cleared, the big black spots dancing before his eyes and obscuring everything before him. But there was nothing holding him down; no chains, no ropes, no restraints of any kind. And the place was awfully quiet, too, and somewhat chilly.

Fortunately, his vision managed to clear before he stood up, though not fully. The room felt as if it was revolving around him, making it difficult for him to keep upright, not to mention walking.

Hold on... The room was familiar. Very familiar. In fact, it was the exact same basement he entered some time ago when following the Joker. He rubbed his head through the mask as bits and pieces put themselves in place in his mind, making him recollect exactly what transpired.

The Joker. The anger he incited within the Dark Knight, the brief fight – or rather brief pounding – that followed... And he felt himself go pale when memories of what came next surfaced in his head. Vivid, passionate memories of that moment of bliss, of oblivion.

Of madness.

" _Master Bruce?_ " he heard in his earpiece. " _Are you alright?_ "

He sighed through his nose. "I'm fine, Alfred," he responded, looking around the place again. No sign of the clown, nor of anything he could have possibly done, to either the basement or the Batman himself. But it made no sense. Why would he just knock him out and leave?

" _Oh, thank God,_ " the butler exhaled over the comm. “ _I was about to send Robin after you..._ ”

“No need,” the Knight responded, slowly making his way towards the stairs. He gradually regained composure and could pick up speed as he ascended, but nothing seemed to be able to get his mind off the recent events. “I've had a little setback, what time is it?”

He could feel himself gulp as he heard the reply: “ _Nearing five in the morning, sir._ ”

“... Right, I'm headed back now. I need a shower and some proper sleep...”

 

“That never happened before.”

Alfred peered up at the boy from where he was looking over a set of photographs. They were spread out on the table right next to the batcomputer's main station, seemingly in some order, but it was somewhat difficult to tell. All of them represented the Joker in one situation or another; some where shots published in newspaper, taken on those not-so-rare public appearances of his, and the rest made by Batman himself, who was of course the one to leave them there.

“No, Master Timothy, it has not,” the butler agreed, shaking his head. Having returned to the cave, the Bat insisted on being checked for side effects of whatever gas Joker used to render him unconscious, but would not say a word about the circumstances. That was not so unusual in itself, since he was a man of few words and rarely explained himself to anyone, but this time something was clearly amiss. If the Joker was up to something, the rest of them deserved to know, even if solely to know what to look out for and what to expect.

That, and the fact that as soon as he was out of costume, Bruce Wayne took a very brief shower, and went to sleep. So deep a sleep, in fact, that he has not woken yet, and it was time for his next patrol out in the city. Meaning that he was out the entire day, and it was only by strand of luck that it was a Saturday and he was not required in the company.

“At least we know he wasn't poisoned,” the boy allowed himself a sigh as he got into costume, piece by piece. It was probably better if he went alone, even though the lord and master of the house would likely not be happy to hear that once he got his royal behind up again. But that would not be the first, nor the last time, so all was in order.

“It is quite possible that the gas had a side effect that requires this much rest,” Alfred stated as he handed the young master his trademark Robin mask. “As far as I'm able to tell, and as the results show, he's in perfect health, so he should wake soon enough.”

“Something happened last night, Alfred,” Tim announced the obvious as he put the mask on and headed towards the hangar section. “Something he's not telling us.”

“I know, Master Timothy,” the butler nodded, watching the boy approach one of the motorcycles. It was small in comparison to others of its type – compact, one would say – but it had enough power to suit their needs of chasing other vehicles, or sometimes running from other vehicles. Tim had to admit he liked them more than the car; they were sleek and looked really good in black, stylized like everything else in this cave. And there was something about the wind in your hair and the cloak flapping behind you.

“And you are hoping you can figure out what it was,” Alfred sighed.

Robin gave him a small grin. “You know me too well. But hey, you know how stubborn Bruce can be. Sometimes we need to help him when he tells us not to.”

And yes, the elder had to admit that was correct. He just hoped that the boy would not get himself into any trouble without the backup of his mentor. And that his mentor would come back to him soon, he wished as he watched the Boy Wonder drive off into the night.

 

Robin returned on schedule, which was a welcome return to routine after the previous night's mystery. His costume was dirty with all sorts of dust and mud that one found on the shady streets of Gotham, but other than that there were no visible injuries on him, what again came as a great relief.

And he, too, was relieved to see who waited for him as he parked the motorcycle in its usual spot. Next to a smiling Alfred – he always smiled, that man – sat a rather shabby looking Bruce. He did not bother suiting up this time, busy with a cup of tea instead as he worked on something on the batcomputer; something from which the roar of the engine apparently distracted him.

“You weren't wasting time,” he said as the boy approached them.

“Hey,” he smiled. “Someone has to keep the place in order while you nap, you know. How are you feeling?” he asked, peering on the screen, and not being surprised at seeing only pictures and data on the Joker on it.

In fact, the screen displayed a slide show of everything they had on the clown, which was annoyingly little. Aside of numerous photographs from various sources, they had nearly nothing. They could watch the Joker performing before pulling off some deadly prank on his unfortunate audience; they could watch shots from security footage as he decided to accompany his henchmen on a heist; or watch him pull faces when he noticed the camera. But other than that... his past crimes, some data on his henchmen, likely hideouts. Nothing on his modus operandi, since he was the very definition of unpredictable. Several versions of who he was before becoming the clown prince of crime, all equally likely and all coming from the Joker himself. And that was it.

Nothing. Not even his real name.

“I'm fine,” Bruce stated simply, but he failed at hiding that he expected what the boy was doing out in the night. It was obvious what Robin would focus on, unless something really major came up; and knowing Gotham and its weird tendency for avoiding coincidences, it did not. "What did I miss out there tonight?" he asked, a sensation of having his guts squeezed inside him an indication that he wants to know more than he admits.

"Nothing much," Tim allowed himself a slight shrug, but clearly he did not manage to fool the man. "A minor mugging, breaking and entering, and that's about it."

"About it?" Bruce repeated, frowning.

"Well, with nothing really going on, I decided to take some time for myself and went for the old funhouse," the boy admitted, trying to cover his investigation in a joke – once again in vain - and reaching to the back of his belt. "You won't be surprised to know the rides still don't work. But I found this."

With that, he produced a small package that immediately caught attention of the other men. In fact, small was an understatement; it fit in the palm of a hand, suggesting there was very little inside. The paper it was wrapped in was a deep purple colour, very familiar to all their eyes. The whole thing was topped with a poisonously green, yet very neat bow - and attached to it was a small piece of paper. All it said was "Batman" in careful, decorative handwriting, and a smiling heart right next to it.

"Don't worry," Tim said, seeing their expressions. "I scanned it. No explosives, no chemicals, no tracking devices."

Bruce took it off his hand, narrowing his eyes somewhat. Out of the three of them, he was the only one to realize the heart next to his alias was more than a small joke. It was a huge, sick and perverted joke, and made him want to curse. It took a lot of willpower to stop himself from doing that, however, but the last thing he wanted was betraying that something between him and the Joker really did happen, and that it really was not right. Of course the clown would play on what transpired between them that one night. Of course he would use it somehow. Suddenly it was clear.

The Joker had planned that all along.

And the Batman walked right into it.

Trying to hide the anger he suddenly felt for himself, he carefully unwrapped the package, not wanting to damage whatever was inside. And underneath the purple paper, covered in an extra layer of neat bubble wrap, was a memory card.

"... At least it's not dentures this time," Tim said to break the silence that fell. And, in fact, he said what all of them were thinking. They expected the usual, some sort of goofy, practical gag to spring at them the moment the gift is opened. But something so... mundane, so safe and so very much not funny was nowhere on their expectations list.

Bruce rose from the chair, letting the wrapping drop to the stone floor, and simply headed up towards the mansion. He did not even shut the batcomputer off, but then again, they seldom did that at all. The other two followed him, rather perplexed, since he knew something they did not and would not tell them.

"Sir..." Alfred started carefully as he tried to catch up with the master. "Where exactly are you going?"

"Wouldn't want to risk infecting the batcomputer, now do we?" the man responded, not looking back at them. He knew they wanted to know what this was all about, and they deserved to know. The problem was that he had no idea just how was he to tell them that. _Hey, guess what, I fucked the Joker_ did not really seem a good way. But something told him that whatever was on that memory card would make things painfully clear...

"No, sir, we would not," the butler agreed as they exited the staircase and carefully locked the passage behind them. "We need a non-network computer then."

He nodded. "Tim, fetch a laptop."

The boy was off even before his guardian could utter the last syllable. He sure was eager to get to the bottom of things, as always. Bruce could not help but smile slightly, albeit somewhat sadly, as he watched his adoptive son rush as if a life depended on his speed. Alfred, however, was less than amused to watch Timothy hoist himself over the barrier in a successful attempt to shorten his path downstairs.

"No," Bruce said as he noticed his friend's expression. "He's not going to stop that."

The butler responded with a warm, if small, smile, but neither of them said a word after. The silence in the room was as thick as paper in some of the old books lined up on shelves around them, and the air was heavy despite a window being open. Feeling mighty awkward, the servant simply prepared a spot on a desk, using that as an excuse not to look at his master.

Tim returned within minutes, carrying an already powered up laptop and a suitable adapter for the memory card. Without much celebration, they simply plugged said card in, only to realize that all it contained was a video file. Feeling his heart skip a beat, Bruce opened it.

Unsurprisingly, Joker's faced popped up on the screen, his hair and suit as neat as always when he was in front of a camera or any sort of audience. His trademark grin was in place, too, twisting the artificially widened lips up.

“ _Batsy!_ ” he called. “ _If you're hearing this, then I'm assuming you found the recording. Otherwise you wouldn't be able to hear it, right? Since this is on the recording._ ” There, he paused, allowing himself a small giggle at his own, horrifyingly unfunny joke. “ _I have a small proposition for you, Bats. I'm sure you wondered why I haven't boobytrapped your fine ass into oblivion last time we met, right?_ ”

Alfred and Tim both glanced at the man in question, but only saw his focused stare fixed at the video. The clown, who of course had no way of knowing when to pause for an audience's reaction, simply went on: “ _The answer is elementary, my dear Crusader_ ,” he smirked. “ _Caught up in the_ passion _of the moment, you forgot to check for hidden cameras._ ”

Bruce felt himself go pale, and was sure the others saw this even in the dim light of the screen. And the obvious emphasis on that one word would surely be enough to plant ideas in their heads about just what the whole thing was about.

But the recording continued as Joker held up a memory card, obviously a different one than the one they were watching. “ _Yes, Batsy, I've got it all on tape. Figuratively speaking, of course, since this isn't really a tape. I should probably play a bit to prove it, but since I'm expecting the Boy Blunder is there with you, I'll spare him that,_ ” he grinned. “ _Showing such godawful things to children would be quite_ anal _of me, wouldn't it?_ ”

“Bruce...” Tim finally spoke up, no longer able to keep quiet as ideas formed in his head, all pointing to just one conclusion of what all those implications meant. “He's bluffing, isn't he?”

“ _The deal is simple. You have twenty-four hours to come to the haunted mansion in the old funhouse, or this,_ ” the Joker waved the card around “ _is anonymously donated to the media. And no tricks, no backup, or the deal is off._ ”

When no reply came from the man, the still partly costumed Robin could only gulp in a very audible manner. That was no bluff. Whatever was on that memory card was bad enough to have the Batman stumped. Scared. There was no denying it; he was almost never afraid, but those few times that someone was around to see it, it showed in his eyes. And Alfred has been around to see it.

“Master Bruce,” he said carefully as the video stopped, having played everything there was to play. “Am I right to assume you're currently in the process of putting together a plan on how to go in there, destroy the recording and go out?”

“It won't be that easy,” came the reply, and they could hear Bruce's voice shiver for a fraction of a second. “Joker's no fool, there's bound to be copies. We have no idea where, how many and in what form...”

“Then...” Tim paused, not really sure if he wanted to ask the question. “What will happen if he sends that footage to the media?”

Bruce narrowed his eyes as he turned to the boy, making him take a step back under the sheer force of the gaze. “Nothing,” he announced “because I can't let him do that.”

And with that, he simply headed for the grandfather clock that hid the entrance to the cave. He did not say more, struggling with the anger at himself for allowing for all this to happen, fury at having been foolish enough. The Batman should have known better than to expect anything from his perhaps not strongest, but still greatest enemy.

And the Batman should certainly never allow himself to give in to such sick desires.

“So you're going to give in to his demands?!” Robin asked as he caught up with him, grabbing his shoulder to make him stop. “If you have a plan, I demand to know!”

Bruce indeed did stop, glancing over his shoulder at the boy he grew to truly consider his son. “Yes,” he responded. “I do have a plan.”

Tim exhaled. “Grand. What is it?”

“You,” the man said simply and resumed his descent into his little – or perhaps not so little – base of operations.

Having exhausted his blinking quota for the day, Timothy resumed following him, Alfred not far behind. “What do you mean, me?”

“Twenty-four hours is not enough for us to trace all the copies,” came the reply, but Bruce did not spare the boy another glance as he simply started changing into his trademark, dark suit. It just hung there, waiting patiently, right next to Jason Todd's old Robin costume. A reminder of what loss the Joker caused this family.

And the pain he was to administer on the Bat was not only nowhere near its end. It was growing. And said Bat had so few options, he chose to submit...

“So you're really giving yourself in?!” Tim exclaimed, only half of him shocked at the idea. The other half knew that if his foster father deemed this necessary, it really _was_ necessary. He only wished he understood the situation better. Knew more.

Knew what that goddamn memory card contained.

“That will stop Joker from making the footage public,” Batman said simply, pulling the mask down onto his face. “You're going to have to deal with the copies while I keep him occupied.”

“What _is_ on that tape that got you so spooked...?”

There was no reply, once again, but a sharp, drilling stare. Obviously the man did not want to speak of this, only further confirming the dreadful ideas of what was going on.

Alfred stepped forward. “But, sir... what if he chooses to kill you...?”

He shook his head, approaching one of the two motorcycles. “He won't. He's had his chances, that's not what he really wants. I'll be fine,” he lied, starting the engine and simply driving off.

Neither Tim nor the butler tried to call after him to stop. They did not pursue. They just stood there, watching him roll out of the cave. They were both thinking the same things without even realizing it, but neither chose to voice those thoughts; they were preposterous, outlandish, obnoxious.

And yet all evidence pointed to them being true.

“I shall alert Master Richard and Miss Gordon...” Alfred said in his impossibly calm tone as he turned to the batcomputer, but sadness could be clearly heard beneath the words. The other simply nodded; they would need all the help they could get.

 

Batman parked the motorcycle a considerable distance away from the funhouse and set its locator beacon to activate within the next thirty minutes. That would allow the others to retrieve it without getting in his way, and that was the last thing he wanted. If any of Joker's henchmen as much as caught a glance of a cape different than the Bat's, that would mean the end of him.

Not by death, but by humiliation.

The funhouse was a disaster; a shadow of Gotham's possibly only place of true enjoyment. Now it was but a ruin, anything that was wooden slowly rotting away and all that was metal being eaten by rust. Paired with that, the dirt, mud and mould made quite a creepy impression of the whole place, bringing up images of all sorts of horror stories of haunted theme parks and playgrounds. If anyone ever wanted to make another movie like that, they had a set already waiting for them.

The silence did not help, either; all he could hear was the chilly night wind and the occasional creek of door desperately holding on to its hinges. Some branches rustled somewhere. All the funhouse needed to complete the picture were whispers, and perhaps a lonely child.

Batman would be quite scared had he not been Batman.

The section of the theme park he headed for was even worse than the rest. Of course Joker chose the haunted mansion. It had style. An old Victorian building, stylized to look like it had been really build back then and abandoned all that time – as opposed to the actual decade or so – surrounded by a dying artificial garden and a cemetery in the back.

He stepped inside carefully, but he did not expect any more traps or any goons to jump him the moment he crossed the threshold. Oh, no, the Joker probably wanted him intact, and had enough of a leverage to ensure his cooperation for the time being.

“Hello, Batsy!” a call echoed in the seemingly empty house. Empty but for the clown who waited for him in the very hall, merely several steps away from the main door. “I wasn't expecting you this fast, I didn't have time to set my hair!”

“Cut the jokes,” Batman narrowed his eyes. “I'm here as you demanded, and I'm alone.”

“You are indeed!” the clown clapped his hands. Only then did the Crusader notice that behind him, by the door, stood a henchman almost as broad in frame as he was. He approached without a word and the Dark Knight could not help but notice that in one hand he held something that looked strangely – and terrifyingly so – like a leather collar.

“Your belt, if you please,” said the Joker, a sly grin not leaving his face as he watched his now captive relinquish all his tools and gadgets. He was very capable without them, of course, but that still greatly diminished his chances at getting out or calling for help.

As soon as the famous belt was in the goon's hand, the collar was fastened around the Bat's neck. The first thing that came to his mind was a question as to why they did not remove his mask. In fact, the Joker never really showed interest in finding out who he really is, but that still struck him as odd. The very next thought was that of the humiliation that would soon follow. Because the only reason his enemy would want him to wear a blasted collar was to belittle him in the most humiliating ways possible.

Only then did the clown approach him, the smirk suddenly wider. “I forgot to check if it's legal in this country to keep bats as pets. Wait, why do I care about legal?” he laughed, grabbing the collar. “You're coming with me, sunshine,” he added as he tried to pull his captive with himself, his voice dropping in tone to that sinister, low level. The Knight chose not to resist, at least for now, and simply followed.

“And oh, how much fun are we going to have,” the Joker continued, still in that scary voice. “All my dreams coming true. _Our_ dreams.”


	3. The Poet and the Pendulum

_Forgive me,_

_I have but two faces_

_One for the world_

_One for God_

\- The Poet and the Pendulum, **Nightwish**

 

Of course it was dark. Darkness was friend to just as many as it was an enemy to; or, in this city, perhaps even more. Darkness had power. It incited fear; people were afraid of the uncertainty. When you could not see much, you could not know what might be lurking in the shadows. Perhaps even right behind you. Their hearts skipped beats when they heard sounds in the dark, and many fainted because of thunder. And, for those that treated darkness as a friend, it was also a hideout. Playing on the fear of shades and sounds and unknown, one could easily disappear in it and travel undetected.

Darkness and fear were power.

Jonathan Crane knew that. His ability to weaponize fear itself was what made him famous in both the criminal underworld and the surface that still deemed itself just. Everyone was afraid of something; either they had some overt or covert phobias that they struggled with daily, or some typical, mundane worries like losing someone they cared about. Those who knew how to use it had the potential to make others do exactly everything.

If, of course, there was no Batman on the way.

Crane found himself wearing his criminal attire each time he went out into the city, even if he stuck to the deepest shadows. Why, he was not sure; everyone knew his real name anyway. But there was something about those old, plain clothes and the linen mask that made him feel... secure. As if that was the real him. He has been compared to a scarecrow before, thin, unappealing, weak. So he decided to stop fighting it and became that exactly.

The Scarecrow.

“You took your time,” he said in a low voice, soft but creepy at the same time, staring at a spot somewhere deep in the darkness.

“Don't be surprised,” someone replied, their voice much deeper, but also hushed. “The last thing I'd want is one of those vigilantes catching sight of me before it's time.”

“Fair enough,” the professor nodded his head so slightly it was barely visible under the mask. “What do you want this time?”

The other man, whoever he was, did not seem to move from his spot. The only indication that he really was there was a slight difference in the texture of the darkness where he stood, as if he was deeper than the lack of light around him. He also seemed careful to avoid even the most distant sources of lighting, like the old neons on the buildings surrounding this dark alley.

“One last deal,” he responded, his voice sounding even more menacing even though he did not bother to try and make it so. “The price is twice as much as what we agreed on last time.”

The Scarecrow raised an eyebrow, which the other one of course could not see. “Curious. And in exchange?”

“There is one grave on the cemetery by Wayne Manor that's unmarked,” the mystery voice replied, but the words did not cause much of a reaction. In this line of work, mentioning the dead was hardly surprising. And even what followed did not count as particularly outlandish either. “I need you to dig it up and dispose of the remains in whatever manner you choose, as long as there's no trace of them.”

For a split second, there was silence, but Crane did not hesitate long before replying: “I see. And why is it so important that you're willing to pay so much for a job this... simple?”

“I cannot be linked to it in any way,” the man said. “I will make it worth your time, Professor.”

Whatever the promised amount was, it appeared to be very much enough to convince the Scarecrow. He nodded, the gesture again obscured somewhat by his trademark mask. “Very well, it shall be done. How do I contact you to inform you?”

“You don't.” A quiet ruffle of what must have been clothing and a tiny change in the texture of darkness indicated that the man in the shadow finally moved. “I'll find you.”

Then, silence fell, and after a moment Crane too decided to leave the dark alley. It was not much different than any other of the dozens abandoned filthy alleys spread around Gotham, but for some reason, his current... employer made him feel uneasy. Perhaps the fact that this was to be their last deal was not such a bad thing.

If only he knew that a few stories above them, someone was watching them all this time.

 

The place Joker took him to was surprisingly cosy. But then again, it made sense that he would want his greatest prize in to be kept pristine. Especially if he wanted to use his prisoner for the same thing that got him here in the first place, what was more than likely. The Batman was glad he practised his poker face so hard; he was now able to hide just how much he disliked the whole thing, keeping his usual cool, indifferent attitude. And it seemed to have an effect on the clown's goons, too, who were possibly even more uneasy than he was.

Wanting nothing more than to get away from the Bat – why exactly, he was not sure, but it hardly mattered – the henchmen led him to a pile of rather old and not completely soft pillows that were apparently to serve as his bedding, since the subterranean room they were in lacked anything that looked like an actual bed. He managed to catch sight of some sort of old cabinet in a corner, between all kinds of crates. This was obviously a basement with minor additions, quite ironic, considering that the cursed tape that got him there was filmed in a cellar. Half a moment later a chain was attached to his collar, binding him to the wall, and then the goons cuffed his hands and ankles together. But the cuffs were of the sort that had that short chain between them, allowing him limited freedom of movement. He could break the chains if he wanted to, all three of them.

But he would not, and the Joker knew this.

He just stood there by the pile of pillows, watching his captor, who did not speak until his henchmen left, closing the creaking door behind themselves. He started his speech by bursting into laughter.

“Look at you!” he chirped. “Not only are you mine, but it's all _your_ doing! Isn't it great?!”

The Knight did not seem moved by the words, managing to hide his growing anger at himself. “I don't know what your sick dreams are, Joker,” he said sternly “and I don't want to know. But this has nothing to do with _my_ dreams.”

“Didn't look like it a few nights ago,” the clown grinned, baring teeth that were as white as his skin, giving his face a very eerie look. “Didn't _feel_ like it, either.”

“What do you _want_ , Joker?” the other man asked in a voice that started becoming as harsh as it usually was, his eyes narrowed under the mask.

The jester pranced towards him, clearly enjoying this little random dance of his as he closed in on his captive. “Why, isn't it obvious?” he smirked. “You, Batsy! For myself!”

“So you're going to keep me here like a dog on a leash?”

The response that came was certainly not something one would expect a person to do to their dog, but not entirely surprising. Lips pressed against his in a demanding kiss, and he found himself giving in when the Joker tried to deepen it. It felt odd to see – and feel – him being so dominant; yes, he was a criminal mastermind who constantly ordered people around, but he never did things directly. Always the long way around to get what he wanted, and this time, he simply took it.

Batman's arms moved almost on their own as he tried to take hold of the clown, but the chain held his hands so close together that he could do little more than rest them on the other man's chest. The kiss lasted so long that for a moment it seemed they would not part; long enough for the Knight to realize there was more under it than just pure lust, fascination with one's polar opposite. He could taste the same desires that clouded his own mind before, that drove him towards the actions that ultimately led him here.

His brain instantly pushed those thoughts away. He did not and would not believe that either of them could feel that way. Joker was insane, he probably did not even realize what he was doing.

His train of thought was rudely interrupted when the criminal pulled away, finally breaking the kiss. Without removing the leather collar, he grabbed the Batman's cowl and yanked it back.

The world seemed to freeze around them as they stared in each other's eyes; the eyes they looked deep into on many an occasion, eyes they knew so well by now. But the Joker's gaze could not help but wander over that face. Over the handsome, sharp features, the strong jaw. The face everyone in Gotham knew even if they did not want to.

The face of Bruce Wayne.

There it was again, that shrieking, unnerving laughter. The Knight felt himself shiver – possibly in even more anger – as the clown just laughed and laughed at having seen who he really is. Was it really that funny?

When the jester finally turned back to him, he was wiping tears out of his eyes. The chained man kept telling himself they were caused by his reaction from a minute ago. But when their gazes met again, he was certain there was more to it. Disappointment? Perhaps, but why would that move him to tears? Sadness? Possibly, but _why_?

“A very nice mask you have there,” he said, a small, not really sly smile on his white face. “Batman. To hide behind a careless playboy, that's really ingenious.”

There was no response other than a sharp glare that pretended it is not puzzled. The Crusader would not say it out loud, but he could not deny that the Joker was the only one who thought of the cape and cowl as the real man and not a disguise. Just like he himself stopped referring to it by that name years ago, at some point when his ideals and identities seemed to spin around and ended up the way they were. Out of all the villains he has faced over the years, only the clown claimed he knew the truth about which of the two is the real one. Only he claimed to really understand the Bat.

And he was right.

And it was terrifying.

Smiling that eerie, saddened smile of his that he showed seldom and never without meaning, the Joker pulled the dark mask back onto Wayne's face. “No matter. I want to see the real you,” he said. But when he caught a glimpse of a frown before it disappeared, he smirked. “Convenient, isn't it? The others down here wouldn't be so kind as to keep your other name a secret. I guess I'm doing you a favour.”

The other groaned, flinching away from the touch, but not before his face was safely behind the Batman. “And I'm guessing you'll want something in return for that,” he said, even though he knew he would regret it sooner rather than later. And the insane grin and clapping of hands he got as a response only confirmed it.

“Very perceptive, Batsy!” the jester cheered. “And I'll be happy to help myself to my reward!”

Bruce pulled back until he was flat against the wall as his captor approached him again, an almost alien fire in his eyes. Why did he back up, he was not sure; perhaps because he knew what was to come next, and did not want it. Not at all. He enjoyed it last time much against reason and conscience, but this time, things would be different, and he was not certain he wanted to find out how much different.

But the Joker certainly did not ask his permission. He claimed his lips again and explored that warm mouth with his tongue, taking his sweet time. He knew the chained man would not dare resist, not with the tape safely stored away. He revelled in the soft gasp he forced out of his little toy when he slid his hand down his underwear.

“This time,” he smirked “we're having it _my_ way.”

The Batman tried to resist, but despite all the willpower he mustered, his body refused to listen. He hardened under the irritatingly gentle touch and heard himself groan quietly. The sensation was not as intense at with some of his previous - or perhaps he should say other – lovers, but there was something underneath it that made it much better. Much more desirable. He wanted more, and his stomach twisted itself when he remembered it is only and solely because the one touching him was the Joker.

But that sickening pleasure became simply sickening when the hand moved lower, and he felt fingers rub around his opening. Of course. Why should he have expected anything from the clown prince of crime other than dominance? Claiming what he wanted as his own by any means necessary?

When a finger was slowly pushed into him, and he stilled himself, cold, horrid realization dawned. This was no longer simple blackmail or extortion.

This was rape.

He groaned, feeling another finger going inside him and stretching him uncomfortably, though, thankfully, at this point there was at least no actual pain. Not that it was much of an issue; he learned to control pain, so it was not the part he was afraid of. What went on in his mind was another matter entirely. He wanted this, he could not lie to himself much longer, but not like this.

Joker suddenly pulled the hand back and pushed the Batman onto his knees. Taken by surprise, and completely occupied by a myriad of disturbing thoughts, the man did not resist and ended up groaning as his knees hit the stone floor. He knew exactly what was expected of him even before the unnervingly pale shaft was shoved into his face, almost literally. As he moved his tongue slowly over it, he tried with all his willpower to silence out whatever it was that came to his mind.

Stop thinking. Stop worrying. Calm yourself, and just stop thinking...

He was not certain how long it took before he finally managed that, but when his mind grew mercifully quiet and almost dark he began to register the moans his tongue caused. He did not even realize just how hard the Joker was until that moment, and flinched away, only to wrap his lips around the erection a moment after.

He had no real idea why he was doing it. Having shut all reason off as best as he could, he was left with instinct to guide him. And instinct not only told him that he must cooperate in order to preserve his image – in other words, keep the tape shelved – but it also pushed him towards what he wanted.

And he wanted the Joker. Close, naked and writhing in pleasure because of him.

Despite its nearly inhuman appearance, the member tasted just as he would expect it to. Not that he has ever done this before to compare, but he had a fairly good idea what skin tastes like. It was not so bad, either, and he found himself moving his head along the erection as well as his tongue inside his mouth. It felt appropriate, and once he closed his eyes as well, it got close to something he could describe as a pleasurable experience on his end, too.

He lost himself in that sweet, quiet oblivion, not thinking, not watching, just doing what was expected of him; so lost that he could not tell the flow of time anymore, but fortunately, the Joker pushed him away with a loud groan before he could get a taste of more than just his shaft. Breathing deeply, Batman looked up with his eyes slightly blurred, only to see that his captor was no longer before him. He had a fairly good idea where he has gone, though, and chose to remain as he was – chained and on his fours, supporting himself on his arms that thankfully kept him up even when his brain was almost shut off.

The Joker obviously had no intention of undressing him. And that came as no surprise; he wanted the Batman, not the man under the cowl, and making him keep the suit on in this humiliating situation was almost symbolical. A way of marking his victory over the Dark Knight, of branding him as his own.

And this time, the Caped Crusader could not handle it on his own. He was held in check not only by the accursed tape that the clown prince of crime stored away somewhere – could be anywhere – but by his own sick desires, the same ones that led to this predicament. Desires he could not understand, burning lust he could not deal with. He noticed troubling signs before, but always dismissed them as something else; he had disturbing dreams, but pushed them away into the back of his mind, blaming them on his restless quest to stop all wickedness in the city, with the Joker above all else.

But now, as he knelt there on all his fours, exposed before his most relentless foe, he realized that was never the case. The signs were always there, but he was afraid of admitting that to himself, let alone anyone else. But even if he finally accepted his lust for what it really was, he still could not explain it. There was no reason for it. It was just odd, physical attraction. Nothing more. _Nothing more_.

The hands that were roaming his rear unnervingly gently, teasing his skin without touching his half-erected member – another reason for both shame and admittance of why he was so docile – pulled up and rested on his cheeks. His mind, again operating at full capacity and making him think far too much about all of this, caught up with what was going on almost instantly. The fear – yes, fear – of what was to come was so overwhelming that he hardly noticed he was slapped rather playfully, and he barely heard the Joker giggling behind him. He was not scared of the pain. He was scared of-- of having his first time with a man like this. And he was scared he would like it.

He could not hold a short cry as he felt himself invaded. That word seemed to describe it just right; Joker pushed into him roughly and without a warning, and simply started moving at an irritatingly slow pace. It hurt, of course it did; Bruce was nowhere near ready, completely dry and not stretched. But that he could endure, he suffered far worse on many an occasion. The worst part was that odd pleasure he felt beneath the pain. The shaft touched something inside him that forced jolts of pleasure to wash over him with each thrust, as well as made him moan time after time.

That, in turn, earned laughter; that shrieking, insane, maniacal laughter the jester reserved for his deadliest of pranks and greatest of triumphs. He leaned forward, pressing himself against the caped back, and whispered straight into the pointy ear:

“You're enjoying this, Batsy...”

Bruce shook his head, but his defiance died out in more, louder moans as the other man moved faster inside him. He slapped him, too, from time to time, sometimes on the left, sometimes on the right. And that only made things worse.

He once again lost track of time, the mixed sensations overwhelming him to the point where he did not even know whether he wanted it over or not. But the finish that they finally reached was nowhere near the romantic descriptions one would find in all sorts of romance books. Not that he expected it to be. He really did not know just what he was expecting from this.

Joker spilled inside him rather suddenly, and all Batman could feel was the hotness filling him. It was unpleasant, to say the least; so unpleasant, in fact, that it overshadowed what little enjoyment he could have from all this. And then, just like that, his captor pulled back and circled him to stand in front of him once more. He did not say a word, but it was not necessary. That smug smirk and an eerie gleam in his eyes said it all.

He won.

When the clown turned to leave, readjusting his clothes, the Knight laid down where he was kneeling a moment ago, ignoring the fact that the not entirely soft pillows were next to him at arm's reach. He could not really care, even the cold stone floor would do. He had completely different things on his mind.

He felt sick and violated; even despite the fact that he did want this, it was not right. Not to mention it not feeling as it should, not on his end. Whatever he might have wanted from that sex, even though it was forced and hardly consensual, was carefully and thoroughly ignored. He was in no pain anymore, except for the fact that he himself never reached climax, and that started to make itself very apparent to him. As he was left there, alone, in dim lights, he had little choice but to finish what was started on his own.

 

Timothy hardly left the batcave since Bruce disappeared into the night, solely because this time they were not sure when - or, he admitted with dread, if - he will return. And, per their established rules, he kept his costume on for as long as he remained in the cavern, though chances of someone butting in and discovering his double identity were slim to none. But it was not his place to argue with the Bat, especially since history has in fact seen some of their adversaries entering the cave, one way or another; especially the possibly most powerful and influential one, Ra's al Ghul.

But Ra's and his League of Assassins were not his concern, not at this particular time. The Batman was in a mess the kind of which he has never gotten himself into, and neither of them really knew how to go on about solving it. The obvious - and very likely not the most reasonable - course of action, which Bruce has already embarked on without asking for a second opinion, was to buy them enough time to think of a way to resolve this. And that was the sole reason for Tim refusing any kind of rest as he paced around the cave and stared at the computer in turns. No one could have any idea what the Joker had planned for his father, they could not even begin to guess, and as much as Alfred wanted the boy to stop pressuring himself so much, he had to admit they needed to act fast.

But there was nothing for them to act on. The boy stared at the huge screen intently, but it failed to miraculously produce a solution to the problem. Despite appearances, the Joker was certainly no fool, and even though his plans sometimes failed because of his own blunders, they tended to be well thought out and prepared. The implications were simple - that accursed tape that he used to blackmail Batman was not the only existing copy, and that much was obvious. Question was, how many other copies existed, and in what form. Were there any other memory sticks, or other data storage devices? Was the file uploaded to some sort of network, and if yes, how vast was it?

How in the great dark universe were they to destroy all of that without alerting the Joker?

Alfred set a cup of hot tea and a small plate of biscuits next to him, but Tim hardly noticed. It took a polite, quiet cough for him to look up, blinking, and realize that he has not, in fact, eaten in some time. With a sigh he grabbed a biscuit and munched it down, still looking very thoughtful, and turned back to the screen.

"What do you think _was_ on that tape, Alfred?" he asked between bites.

The butler allowed himself a small frown. "Whatever it was, Master Tim, it was serious enough to get Master Bruce greatly concerned."

"Not to say panicked," he returned the frown, reaching for his tea. "But there's something we're both thinking and not saying."

"Master Tim...?"

The boy shook his head. "Come on, Alfred, you know exactly what the Joker was implying..."

But no reply came to that as the last word drowned in roars of an engine that echoed in the cave and its tunnels. Someone was approaching, and judging by the rather high-pitched type of noise they made, they had a motorcycle. Not long after that they could see the front light as a familiar, not entirely dark figure rolled in. The man was tall, visibly so even though he was stooped over the motorcycle, and dressed in a mostly black costume with an extensive, bird-like logo in blue. He halted next to the batmobile and dismounted immediately, smiling as the other two approached him.

"You took your time," Robin said, the cup of tea still in his hand.

"Missed you too," Nightwing responded, the smile giving way to a somewhat disappointed frown. "I took a small detour on my way, you won't be happy to hear what I saw."

Tim could not help but snort. "Oh, _tell me about it._ We wouldn't have dragged you all the way back here if we didn't need your help."

"I figured as much," the other shook his head, sighing quietly as he put his helmet on the bike and simply approached the supercomputer; meanwhile Alfred detached himself from them and disappeared upstairs to fetch another cup. "So what's the deal?"

Robin leaned against the computer's main panel and set his half-finished tea aside. "Joker's got Bruce," he stated simply, and earned a somewhat disbelieving and slightly puzzled gaze in return.

"Not the first time and not the last," Nightwing stated. "So where's the catch?"

There was a longer pause in which the butler returned, carrying an ornate porcelain cup to match the one already there, and simply poured some tea into it. But he did not hand it to the young man he intended it for, feeling the tension around the two as the air thickened almost tangibly.

"Bruce went there willingly," Tim finally announced, staring into his friend's - brother's - dark eyes and wondering how he was to tell him the rest of this twisted story. Especially the part no one voiced out loud yet, because of how improbable, preposterous and sickening it was. But he needed to know all of it if he was to help.

Dick sighed loudly. "Whom did Joker hold at gunpoint then, Gordon?"

"Oh, I wish it were that simple, Master Dick," Alfred said, his voice audibly saddened and largely unlike his usual cool and composed self, as he decided to hand Nightwing the tea with a biscuit next to it.

Robin shook his head. "Joker's recorded something and threatened to show it to the media if Batman doesn't hand himself over."

"What _did_ he record...?" the other blinked with the cup halfway to his lips.

"That's the pain," the boy groaned. "Bruce wouldn't say, but judging by what Joker said--" he cut off. He was not sure if that would even get out of his throat, let alone past his lips. The closer he was to vocalizing that thought, the more attention he paid to the details, and that was something he certainly did _not_ want to see, especially with his vivid imagination.

Mercifully, Alfred decided to help him finish that sentence and said: "It seems to be something explicitly sexual," he sighed quietly through his nose. "And possibly concerning both Batman and the Joker."

Nightwing stared, moving his eyes from one to the other. He had expected to hear many things, since the clown they were dealing with was the very definition of random and unpredictable, but that was certainly not on his list. Silence fell again, as one of the men had no idea how to respond to his shock, and the other two did not know what else to say.

Finally, Dick spoke up: "... You're shitting me."

"Master Dick," Alfred scolded him.

"What do you expect me to say?" he snapped, waving his hands in a very exasperated manner. "You're trying to tell me Bruce had sex with _the Joker_ and he caught it _on tape_ , and you want me to be calm?!"

Tim cleared his throat. "We don't really know if that's the case..."

Nightwing frowned at him, his glare sharp. "So you told me that why?"

"To explain just how damn serious this is! Dick, we need to get rid of that recording-"

"And you don't know how."

Robin deflated, his shoulders dropping. "Am I that transparent?"

He got patted on the head in a manner that felt slightly patronizing. Grayson sometimes treated him like that, but he blamed it on the "big brother" role he found his brother playing, but at least the anger seemed to subside. "Nah, but if you knew how to do that, there'd be no problem."

"I can't handle all this on my own," Timothy admitted, moving away from the irritating hand. "I can't look for a way to get Bruce back and keep an eye on Gotham at the same time."

"Then you were right to call me," Nightwing withdrew the hand and looked at him, his expression soft and visibly concerned. "I was late, as I said, because I took a detour... I saw the Scarecrow."

The boy first clenched a fist, but he was not sure what he was angry at. The world for picking a very bad moment for some supervillain plot for taking over the world? Possibly, but then again, this was Gotham. This kind of thing happened here at least twice a month, it was obvious that the longer Batman was away, the greater the chances of one of their adversaries striking. Maybe he was angry at the world for taking Batman away? No, that made no sense.

No matter how much he wanted to deny it, it did not seem like any sort of fate was at fault here.

"It looks like the good professor will be coming here sooner rather than later," Dick continued, his eyes narrowed slightly as he recalled the scene he witnessed in the dark alley.

Alfred turned to him, blinking slowly. "Why would the Scarecrow come here?"

"This is the best part... he was commissioned to dig up an _unmarked grave_ by Wayne Manor."

Tim waved his hands a bit more frantically than was necessary, shaking his head at the same time. "Hold up hold up hold up. There's only one unmarked grave on these grounds..."

Immediately all three pairs of eyes turned to a glass display further back in the cave. A display set a little bit away from the compartments that held their suits and equipment, and the only one that was fully transparent. In it hung an old Robin suit; it was clear it had to be old judging by its design, somewhat less practical and more exposing than the one Tim had on himself right now. That, and it was not simply worn - it was damaged both in battle and in an explosion, dirty, torn and bloodied.

It was the very costume in which Jason Todd, second Robin and Bruce Wayne's second ward, was brutally killed.

"What would the Scarecrow want with him?" the current Boy Wonder asked, his voice dropping to a near whisper, as if he feared speaking louder of his dead predecessor was somehow inappropriate.

"He was commissioned," Nightwing replied, his eyes fixed on the costume. It was that very event, tragic and sad, that not only brought Timothy into the family, but also help mend the relationship between Bruce and Dick, even though the former never really got over his ward's death, and probably never will.

"Do you know by whom?" Alfred asked, his voice also somewhat quieter, matching that of the boys.

Dick nodded slowly. "Partly. I don't know his name, and I've never seen him before, so I'm guessing he must be some new guy trying to establish himself in Gotham's underworld."

Robin groaned. "Just what we need! Do you have any leads on him, though? Any at all?"

Another nod. "I sort of... saw his face."

"Sort of."

Nightwing sighed. "He shouldn't be that hard to find, provided he keeps the same style later. His face was all wrapped in bandages."


	4. Another Stranger Me

_I didn't know_

_I couldn't hear the answer_

_My mind was blank_

_I should've known_

_I hold it back but somehow_

_There is someone else_

_Another stranger me_

\- Another Stranger Me, **Blind Guardian**

 

Far too many things needed handling because of Batman's absence, mostly because said absence was both sudden and unexpected. There were only two of them left - "they" being Gotham's vigilante protectors - against a city's worth of criminals and all sorts of whackos. There was no telling what they could come up with, especially once they figure out one of their adversaries is missing, and the whole thing was worsened by the fact that there was a new name and face in the underworld. So far unknown, and with an unnerving interest with either the Wayne family, or those they have buried.

And, on top of all that, there was still a cover to maintain.

Timothy never felt too comfortable in official suits, but was not really that much against wearing them, either. His parents did have a company of their own, once, what seemed like a whole lifetime ago. And even though the boy was hardly old enough to have dealt with corporate affairs when they were still alive, they did teach him a thing or two in an attempt to prepare him for a life they had envisioned for him; a life of the next owner and CEO of Drake Industries. Despite the company not existing anymore, that fact alone made him more qualified to deal with Wayne Enterprises than Dick was, or possibly ever could be. Grayson, though Bruce Wayne's ward and not son, was entitled to his legacy as well, but never wanted it. He had his own funds, and his knowledge about running a business oscillated somewhere around zero.

And thus, not entirely happy about it, Tim entered Wayne Tower. He needed to settle a few things, inform the directors and managers and whatnot that Mr Lazy Owner, as he wanted them to see him, was away for an indefinite time. Somewhere on vacation with a lady, certainly; the typical cover story would work as long as he picked a remote location that no one would think to check. South America sounded like it would do the trick.

He returned smiles and greetings that he received as he made his way to the elevator, though the mood was all but a façade. He did seem to be somewhat more popular among employees than his adoptive father; top management saw Bruce as a rich kid with issues (who, in all fairness, he really was) - lazy and good for little - and not all of them were amused to know he took more interest in low-level workers than them. Tim could understand that perfectly, as he himself was not really friends with some of the directors, but he was better and biting his tongue at the same time.

All he wanted was to get things done in the company and return to the batcave to resume his search for Batman. Dick was likely working on it right now, and Oracle was supposed to dig around for the video that got them into this mess, but they would not call him to keep him in the loop while he was playing the little adopted prince.  
But as he wanted to approach Bruce's private secretary to give her all the news, he found himself stuck in place. Sitting on her desk, and flirting as if there was no tomorrow, was a man that should not be there. A man of dark hair, blue eyes, sharp and handsome features.

The two of them immediately broke apart in the sudden awkwardness that Tim's arrival caused, and Bruce Wayne cleared his throat.

"I was not expecting you," he said.

The boy was amazed he managed to find his tongue. "Well, ditto," he responded. Hardly an eloquent and polite thing to say, but those were the first coherent words that came to his mind that did not mention the tape or the Joker. "Didn't you tell me you'd be somewhere else?"

"For quite obvious reasons," he straightened up, getting off the desk. Behind him, the secretary returned to a set of paperwork, staring at it intently to avoid meeting Tim's gaze. But in truth, the boy was hardly surprised to have seen that.

"Well then," Timothy said, deciding to play it dangerous, but having little choice. Something was very much not right. "Don't let me interrupt your personal business, I'll keep the office chair warm for you."

Bruce frowned, pausing for a split moment, but nodded. "Alright then, I'll relieve you later."

The boy simply headed towards the office; he liked it mostly because one of its walls was one huge window, overlooking Gotham, and the view was so breathtaking one could almost forget what scum dwelled below. But as he went past the older man, he found himself speeding up right after he glanced into his eyes. He needed to make a very, very important call home.

Those were not the eyes of Bruce Wayne.

 

To say that the night was dark sounded ridiculous, but that was the truth. The moon was hidden by clouds almost all the time, peeking out shyly only for brief periods of a few minutes at most. Because of that, naturally, it was even more difficult to see anything than usual, and even night vision seemed to have issues with penetrating the darkness. But that was not the worst of it.

Nightwing observed the family cemetery since nightfall - pulled caretaker duty, if one wills. He never liked graveyards in general, and even more so since the deaths of his parents, but he never really feared them. This time, however, things were different. The darkness was deep and almost undisturbed, making the gravestones look much more sinister, and a person of weaker guts could be heard saying that something stared at them from the very stones. The silence, too, felt heavy, broken only by quiet ruffling of leaves on the calm, chilly winds, and that same person could easily mistake the sounds for whispers, or perhaps moans. Even Nightwing himself, who has seen much and endured even more, did not feel quite right.

Part of that eerie feeling that attempted to squeeze his insides was likely the fact that he was not sure who and what he was dealing with. From what he saw last night he knew that the Scarecrow was working with someone who has never been seen in Gotham before - no, that was not right. Someone who wore getup previously unseen among Gotham's criminals, getup that was pretty much a long coat and bandages wrapped around his head so carefully that they hid his entire face. Whoever the man was under that protective layer of his, he made sure to speak in a low, hushed voice so that he would not be recognized... pretty much like the family of the Bat did.

And whoever he was, the Scarecrow did not look pleased to be working with him.

Perched atop one of the trees decorating the grim site, Nightwing observed the targeted spot while being hidden between branches at the same time. It was not the most comfortable hideout, but it gave him a good view of the grave that he knew Crane was after. Why was a completely different question.

Said grave was unmarked, its stone decorated, but bearing no inscription, simply there to signify that someone rests beneath it. And for good reason, too; those who needed already knew that the unfortunate boy was Jason Todd, second ward to Bruce Wayne, and second Robin to Batman at the same time. He died young and tragically, driven by his own emotions of anger and loneliness right into the hands of the Joker... but at least he met his painful end at the side of his mother, whom he sought so eagerly. And no one else needed to know that.

Bruce visited this place often, just as often as he did the burial site of his parents. Jason was like a son to him, and he loved him with all his heart even though he never admitted it out loud.

And Nightwing would be damned if he ever let anyone desecrate the boy's memory.

Truth be told, he did not really expect the Scarecrow to come so soon, merely a day after he was given the job. But then again, he seemed so eager to get it done and to cut his ties with the mystery man that he might as well want to get it over with.

However, it was not until deep in the night that the vigilante heard footsteps; soft footsteps of someone treading on soil and trying not to make noise. From the sound of it, there was more than one... three, perhaps four. Crane brought backup, as expected - and possibly menial labourers, since he was so thin he would likely break while trying to sink a shovel in the ground.

Without his night vision he would probably not pick up more than their flashlights as they approached slowly, with the Scarecrow leading and eyeing each gravestone carefully in search of their target. There were five of them total if counting the professor, two henchmen carrying shovels and two carrying firearms. Small calibre, but guns are always guns. And all four looked like they tried competing with Bane for the title of most muscled man alive.

Nightwing had no intention of letting them find what they sought to avoid the risk of them actually starting to dig, and made his move before they even approached it. Removing the guns from the equation was his priority, even though his suit could likely stop the bullets. He would not risk getting shot in the head. However, that had to be tricky, as a single dose of the anaesthetic contained in his darts was not enough to knock the henchmen out, and he did not have enough to shoot two at each. It was a good idea to nick a few extra gadgets from the batcave, and he was sure Bruce would not have minded, especially if he knew what they were used to protect. The balls were small enough for him to be able to fit three in his palm at once, and three seemed to be just right for his plan to become doable. He would need to act fast, but while he was not as strong as his guardian, he could do fast.

He tossed the grenades at the feet of the intruders. It was not possible for them not to notice, but the whole beauty of this plan was that they had almost no time to react. The balls did not really explode, but they did fall apart mere seconds after having reached the ground and released thick smoke that quickly enveloped all five of them. It was thick enough to be troublesome in broad daylight, and now, in the middle of a nearly moonless night, it proved to be the perfect cover.

The four henchmen could be heard coughing as they inhaled, with the Scarecrow, as expected, under the protection of his mask. It was designed to filter air especially for cases when he released his trademark fear gas; the problem with gas was that it spread rapidly and you never really knew where or how far it would go, so Crane took no chances. That, however, would not save him from what followed. The goons he brought with himself were fortunately bright enough not to fire blindly, and as a result they did not risk detection nor harming each other. But the noises that he heard from the smoke screen could only have been made by something hard hitting something bony, like, say, a fist or a stick meeting a skull. The sounds were rapid, and he could also catch the occasional clicking noise of a gun dropping to the ground.

He could not tell how long it took, but to him it seemed like mere seconds before a figure came out of the smoke close enough for him to at least discern who it was. The man was muscled, but not so much that the mass would distort his athletic figure. He was as lean as a man of his training could be, and impressively tall. The mask on his face covered enough to shield him from the eyes of the world, his hair was messy and unkempt - possibly after the short fight - and his costume so black that it was only visible because of the grey smoke around them. Well, aside of the very blue and vaguely avian logo across his entire broad chest.

And, of course, the rest of his face was obscured by a gas mask.

"Nightwing," the Scarecrow said, his tone deep and calm. "I was expecting interference, but not from you."

"I'm the best you're getting," he replied sternly, his voice muffled by the mask. "And what _I'm_ getting, Crane, is answers."

The immediate reaction of the professor was to launch himself at the man before him; the little contraption he had in the glove on his right hand would allow him to inject the fear toxin directly into the vigilante's system, bypassing the cursed gas filters. But that, of course, was a very predictable move, an obvious course of action for which Nightwing was ready. He simply jumped to the side and away from the long needles, almost making Crane stagger when he realized too late that his target is no longer there.

Being as thin and as physically weak as he was, the Scarecrow collapsed under a single blow to the chin and hit the ground. It did not feel like his jaw cracked, but it still hurt; hell, that was the sole reason anyone hit anyone else. As he turned to try and get up, Nightwing stepped onto his hand - well, not the hand as such, but on the needles, crushing all of them at once and ensuring the criminal had no way of poisoning him, not this time.

With that done, he simply grabbed the front of the man's costume and pulled him up so that they were eye to eye once more.

"Now then," he said grimly. "Answers. What are you doing here with the shovels?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Crane groaned, but was simply struck in the chest with moderate force. He seemed so frail that even weaker blows threatened to crack the bones in his body. This was not Nightwing's usual MO; well, beating for information was often part of it, and he was not ashamed of it, but it was usually accompanied by witty remarks and jokes that were often lamer than funnier. But this time he was not in the mood for either, and especially not for resistance. Batman's reputation, and possibly his life, were on the line, and this villain picked now of all times to come and desecrate poor Jason's grave.

"What are you after?" he growled; he knew, of course, having witnessed the meeting at which Crane accepted the deal. But he needed more.

"A corpse, what else?" the Scarecrow groaned, and it really did seem like a fitting reply to an idiotic question.

" _Which_ corpse?" he added, moving his face an inch closer to the other man's with a sharp, intimidating gaze.

"Any!" the professor lied. "We were looking for one no one will miss!"

Nightwing paused, narrowing his eyes even further. He knew that not to be true, but it did not matter since he already knew the case, and decided to let it slide. The Scarecrow could go on thinking he fooled him – and even if he realized the bluff did not work, it mattered not. “Who sent you?” the vigilante asked, his voice calmer once more, but his gaze as drilling as ever.

The criminal groaned. “Do I _look_ like a stool pigeon to you, boy? Why would I tell you that?”

The first reply he received was a smirk. “How about,” Nightwing began, speaking slowly, as if wanting to make sure every word sinks in “you tell me, I don’t tie you to my bike and drag you all the way to the asylum?”

Crane found himself frowning under his mask. “That’s too far for you goodie two-shoes types,” he said, although the tone of his voice hinting that he is not entirely certain.

“Shall we find out?” the other responded, still smirking in a dark, rather evil way that he reserved only for those rare situations where he really needed to use the advantage of fear. And scaring the Scarecrow was a great feat in itself and not easy to achieve... but if the bandaged man managed, so could others.

“And if I tell you?” Jonathan asked lowly, pretty sure he knew what was going to happen anyway.

Nightwing allowed himself a small shrug, slightly shaking the man in his grip as well. “I take you back to your cell at Arkham. I’m sure they kept it nice and warm for you.”

Silence followed as the thin man considered his options, but it did not really take long. He could not overpower his opponent, not at that time, and his goons were all out of the picture. His... employer would not be happy to know he betrayed him, but then again, there had to be something even he was afraid of. And if he were to – temporarily, of course – return to the asylum, he would be safe from him for the time being.

“Hush,” he said, and when he noticed the eyes under the dark mask narrowing, he added: “He is called Hush.”

 

Timothy was very, very reluctant to leave the mystery man who claimed to be Bruce Wayne alone in the company, but the others talked him into leaving the office and playing along... having left a bug in there, of course, and hoping the imposter will not notice. The batcave and Oracle’s clock tower were both tuned in to its signal, so they could at least hear what went on in the office. And first thing to do tomorrow would be to place more such devices around the place to try and eavesdrop on whatever the man would be doing outside the room.

However, they did not hope to get much that way. They all counted on something else – if that person wanted to pretend being Bruce Wayne, it would mean he would have to, sooner or later, come to the manor. And they would be ready for him, to expose him for what he was and to find out what he wanted.

And how, in the name of all that is holy, did he manage to forge a disguise that precise.

But he seemed to be taking his time, and whether it was because he took care of some of his own business, or because he wanted to mimic Bruce’s actual schedule they could not tell. In fact, he acted almost as if he was out patrolling Gotham in the suit, but they knew better than to assume he knew whom he truly is impersonating. They could not really rule that possibility out, but it was so unlikely they decided to go with the version that he was out on one of Bruce’s cover dates. Finally, late that night, the man finally arrived at the manor gate.

He was alone and drove a car that they were certain Bruce Wayne does not own, but then again he was known for tossing cash around at rather random things sometimes, procuring expensive items on a whim. The media even stopped counting how many vehicles he thrashed – of course, not realizing that those accidents were all cover stories for the Batman's injuries, especially for those dire ones that Alfred could not deal with; like that one time when he needed brain surgery because of a shattered skull, or that possibly darkest episode in his career when a fractured spine tied him down to a wheelchair. But when the imposter stepped into the mansion, his butler nearly dropped the tray he was holding.

The man he saw was, for all intents and purposes, Bruce Wayne. The exact same body type – muscles toned by countless hours of workout, focused on the arms and chest rather than the legs for strength over agility. But that was not the scary part. His face was truly identical to that of the master of the house; so very identical that it managed to fool the estate's facial recognition software and the early warning systems associated with it. The strong jaw, the pale lips, the sharp features, the neat hair, all belonged to the man known to the world and the batcave database as Bruce Wayne. Even the smile he gave his butler upon entry was the very special smile he bore a lot years ago, when Jason Todd was Robin, and started again recently when young Timothy came to mend the wound on his heart.

Whoever this man was, he knew what he was doing. Even if he did not realize he is impersonating the Batman himself, he has gone through a lot of trouble and painstaking research to learn how to become him. Appearance was one thing, demeanour was another. And this imposter, this... wannabe certainly came prepared, but he could not fool the old butler. Not after he spent Bruce Wayne's whole life by his side, raising him like he would his own child, and getting to know him inside out – every twitch of a muscle, every spark in his eyes, he could recognize.

And he knew that this was not the same man that was blackmailed by the Joker.

“Sorry, old friend,” said the imposter. “I didn't mean to startle you.”

“It is quite alright, Master Bruce,” Alfred responded, deciding to play along for now and pretend everything is in order. Perhaps that was for the better. He had no way of knowing what the man wanted to achieve with this charade, or – for that matter – how he knew that the real Bruce Wayne was missing, and what was Jason Todd's posthumous involvement in this. Perhaps, by chance, he could find at least hints of answers if he pretended. And acting was just one of his many varied talents.

“Where's my boy?” the man asked. “Tim?”

The butler paused for a fraction of a second; the real Batman seldom spoke of his adopted son that way, most often in front of cameras and microphones. The true affection he held for him was not vocal; he was a man of few words, displaying what he felt through action instead. And Alfred could not really recall him ever addressing Timothy as “his boy”.

“He is not home, sir,” he said, glad his instincts kicked in fast enough and made him recite the first, most generic lie they used. He had no idea if it would work, but he would not risk exposing their secret identities in case the person before him truly did not know. “I believe he is out with a lady.”

The imposter nodded, pausing with his hand in his pocket. “Good,” he said a little absent-mindedly, his finger gently tracing the small surgical blade he kept there in a leather sheath. Finally, he grabbed it and carefully, as stealthily as possible, he began to take it out.

“That's very good,” he said, turning back to Alfred. “Because you and I need to talk.”


	5. Vain Glory Opera

_What`s a hero at a play_

_Without a fool to fight_

_But behind my enemies' eyes_

_A soul in disguise_

_Not only lies_

_-_ Vain Glory Opera, **Edguy**

 

The Batman had, to say the least, mixed feelings. He was fed properly, even though the food left a lot to be desired in terms of taste and presentation, he was allowed to regularly bathe, given a warm blanket that made sleeping on the pillows relatively comfortable, and was even handed some spare clothes. The only part of his outfit he refused to remove was the cowl, and no one insisted he takes it off. The Joker was, certainly, interested in the Bat, not the man behind the mask. The collar, too, was not overly uncomfortable, despite the fact that he would feel much better without it. But a proper bath, a meal and some sleep helped overcome the physical pain his last encounter with the Joker left in his rear.

The problem was the other kind of pain he felt. How could he have let himself even get here in the first place? How could he have been so foolish, so reckless, so... passionate? No, that did not seem like a right word to describe it. It was supposed to be positive. And the things he did led him to nothing but more negativity, as if he did not have enough in his life already. While regret was a feeling that did not seem to ever leave him at all, and he got quite used to it, shame and humiliation proved to be horrifyingly new. And just horrifying.

Bruce Wayne was never good with his own emotions. He had trouble speaking of them, was quite adept at hiding them, but proved to be almost incapable of truly dealing with them. So far his method of coping with grief was distraction, finding a way to try and silence the feeling by doing something that would help other people avoid the same fate. But grief always came back, time after time, reminding him of itself one way or another. The death of his parents was as fresh in his mind as if it happened only an hour ago, much like the tragic demise of the Flying Graysons, of Janet and Jack Drake... and, of course, of poor Jason. Those things kept returning. Showing themselves in his nightmares.

And now there came the shame. The Batman knew what embarrassment meant; he was no stranger to it, mostly in situations that did not call for audience. Intimate contact or social interaction as a whole did not always go as planned, but those were mostly little things that could be fixed rather easily. This time, it was different. If things really went not according to his sketchy and hastily prepared plan – what was more likely than he cared to admit – the whole world could potentially see how the Joker, the greatest criminal that Gotham birthed, forced the world's greatest detective into submission. How he made him a docile little slave that would not even think of uttering a whimper of protest. How he exposed his deepest, shameful desires to cameras, how he raped him, violated him, and how there was nothing the Dark Knight could do about it.

But even that was not the worst part of it.

As he sat there, chained to the wall, he could not help thinking of his captor. The Joker acted somewhat differently since he got his way, but that was not really surprising. Most people are very different during sex than they are in daylight, and in this particular case you never really know what to expect. Bad jokes, lame puns, potentially lethal pranks, and especially prodding around old wounds was the jester's usual MO, but other than that, everything was always different, improvised, made up on the spot and changed on a whim. But there was one thing that the Batman saw far too many times over all these years, and what seemed to be the only constant part of the clown, the only thing about him that never changed.

His eyes. He stared into them deeply on many an occasion, especially of late when they were as close as two people could be. And the Joker's eyes were always the same. Seemingly bottomless, filled with a spark that could only be his madness, and a fire that appeared to grow in strength and then grow weak again as his moods changed. But those were things everyone who has even heard of the infamous trickster criminal could expect to find, and even those that have never really seen him could probably describe him like that. But there was much more to him than that, and his eyes showed it – by being filled with what the Crusader could name only sadness, a deep grief, perhaps regret, that the jester tried hard to repress. To hide, but from whom? If it was conscious, he already succeeded in concealing it from the world. So who was he trying to hide those feelings from?

Himself?

Bruce sat back against the wall, struggling hard not to read into those thoughts too much, but failed. With no entertainment or anything at all to keep him occupied, he could not distract himself from the nudging thoughts nor memories. Problem was that if the Joker really hid things from himself, tried to lie to himself about what he was feeling, than the Dark Knight knew exactly what that was like. He has gone through that several times already, denying his own emotions – either by pretending not to be in pain, by having trouble expressing affection, or by denying what was true. Just like with the case of that accursed lust, that sickening attraction that ultimately led him to this place.

But if that was the case, then it meant that the Joker was right all along. That they really are more alike than apart, and that he really is crazy.

He shook his head to try and dismiss that notion. He would never accept that, he refused to accept that. He was not crazy. He was not insane...

He paused for a split second as something kicked him in the back of his head and realization dawned. What if he needed a new approach to figure this all out? What if he was looking at it the wrong way? Nothing is ever straight with the Joker, so perhaps turning it backwards would help. If he really had so much in common with his worst enemy, but was very much sane at the same time, it seemed to leave only one option left. The obvious that he refused to consider before, a claim that was so far-fetched and clearly without basis that no one ever bothered as much as suggesting it before. But now, having stared into those deep eyes so closely, the Batman realized that the things contained within them reinforced that preposterous notion, feelings that backed up what his mind was repeating.

The Joker was sane. The pranks, the jokes, the maniacal laughter were all him, but not signs of what everyone was accusing him off. That was why no psychiatrist at Arkham could ever get to the bottom of him. They were prodding in all the wrong places, asking the wrong questions, much like the Dark Knight did not long ago. The doctors could find nothing wrong with the clown because there was nothing about him that would need therapy. There was nothing to cure.

Behind his trademark demeanour, and deep inside those eyes, the Joker was human.

He was brought down from all those troubling thoughts by sounds of footsteps near the door. One person only, so it had to be the Joker himself. His henchmen did come down, to bring food, towels or whatnot, but there were always two of them. And their steps were always heavier, since the clown made sure to surround himself with men that had a greater chance of holding their own against the Bat.

When he looked up from where he was intently observing his own feet, he indeed saw the unnaturally white face and those white teeth between artificially widened lips.

"Batsy," he leaned forward, looking him in the eyes and giving him a goofy smile "I'm home!"

"I noticed," he said simply, looking back. There they were again, those deep, shining green eyes. The Knight felt like he could look into the jester's soul, but all he came out with where just more questions, more shades of grey and more versions of the same man.

And that terrifying, lingering sanity.

But in the moment of silence that followed he was also pretty sure that the criminal is drilling right through his own soul as well. Now that he knew the man behind the mask it was no great feat to put two and two together and figure out the rest of the story.

If Bruce Wayne was Batman, it stood to reason that his accomplices had to be his children - Richard, Timothy... and of course Jason, and he was certain the Joker realized exactly whom he killed and that calling him the Crusader's son was not far from the truth. And it sickened the vigilante to know that his enemy probably took some sort of perverse pleasure in knowing this. But he also had to have figured out what created the cape and the cowl, what drove the little grieving child to hide in the shadows. He must have realized that the city's protector was born in death, during one really bad day.

And the Joker understood. He, too, had a bad day once.

"As grumpy as always," the clown straightened up, frowning in mocking disappointment. "Don't be a party pooper, or daddy will have to punish you."

The smirk that accompanied the last words made the Dark Knight pause and repeat the sentence in his mind. Of course it was obvious what it implied. Not even implied, the jester held him there for one purpose only and he could be really surprised if things did not eventually get from plain kinky to sick perversion. And the first step had to be made somewhere... and with that said, he was not sure whether he preferred the change to be sudden but quick, or slow but gradual. If he could, he would certainly pick "none". But that did not appear to be an option.

"Joker..." he looked up at him, deciding he has nothing more to lose and playing a risky card. Because what is appealing to such deeply concealed sanity if not risk? "Does it really have to be like this?"

The other raised an eyebrow in what appeared to be faked contemplation, clearly enjoying the possibility of mocking his captive further. "Like what? Like me having you chained down here, completely at my mercy?" With this, he smirked. "Yep!"

The Bat heard himself utter a quiet groan of exasperation. "You made clear what you want from me," he said, even though it sounded somewhat idiotic in context. Clear was an understatement, in fact, but he was fed up with trying too hard to sound eloquent. He dropped the act long ago. "And I think it's quite obvious what I want. I know you have no reason to oblige me, not as I am now, but... Why can't we just act like civilized people, for once?"

He knew it was a bad idea to suggest that as he saw the Joker's first reaction, which was a very amused, evil grin, almost literally from ear to ear. "Oh, my dear delusional Dark Knight, you're getting worse," he said in an exaggerated concerned voice, but his expression did not change. "You need your medication, I could have sworn you were serious."

"I am," Bruce replied, making that sly grin instantly drop into an angered sneer.

"Of course you are, you _always_ are!" the criminal exclaimed with obvious irritation, flapping his arms around as if that was to change anything. "Not one funny bone in you!"

With that, he grabbed the man by the leather collar and forced him up, though with less of an impressive result than he hoped. The Crusader was much bigger than himself, and in result much heavier, what caused him to be pulled up at moderate pace rather than with an angry yank. But he did not resist anyway, and did not as much as blink as the green eyes drilled into him once again with what appeared to be fury.

"I should force a bone into you," the clown said in a creepily grim tone, and despite the fact that his words were a distasteful joke, he did not laugh. "And it _will_ be funny."

Batman narrowed his eyes under the cowl. Of course he would do that, even if he had no reason to, and he would do that laughing himself to tears. And that meant he was not risking much, so he decided to keep trying: "If you agree, I'll make it worth your while."

Joker narrowed those shining eyes of his. "Oh? And what can you give me that I couldn't simply take?"

"Give me a chance and I'll show you."

His captor let go of the collar, letting him slide back into a more comfortable, sitting position. He sat like that, looking quite submissive, docile and very much unlike himself. But at the same time he looked different than before, when he allowed himself to be raped; his expression lacked that odd fear and deep shame it had back then, and the feelings seemed to have been replaced by silent acceptance of his position. His eyes, however, shone with something that could only be called desire - no longer the burning lust that he felt before, that he was ashamed of, but deep desire.

The jester frowned with this time genuine confusion at such a change in attitude, but he dismissed it as an attempt to avoid further pain. What he could not know, at least not at that point, was that the Batman finally had a plan. Bruce Wayne had a reputation of a playboy and a heart breaker, and in order to keep that up, he really did need to break some hearts. With those few exceptions where roles turned around, like with Selina Kyle or Talia al Ghul - two women in his life he both loathed and desired at the same time - he became an expert at flirting. And while this idea sounded more bad than it did good, he really did not have much to lose; he did not count on getting himself out of here this way, but perhaps he could buy the others extra time and distract the Joker from them.

It would not be easy. He would need to figure out that twisted, confused mind of his, and he was unable to for years. But now that he had a new approach, now that he knew the clown was sane, it maybe, just maybe, could even work.

He decided to try seduction.

But the collar around his neck and the chains holding his wrists and ankles together suggested only one form of seduction he could try, and that was being a good pet to his master. Not that he had not considered trying this fetish before; he just never thought he would wound up on this end. Heaving a silent sigh through his nose, he moved towards the Joker on all fours, glad the chain pinning him to the wall was long enough for him to reach the clown.

A smirk crept onto the white face, indicating the idea is at least plausible. Remembering just what his captor wanted from him last time, the Batman reached up with his bound hands and undid the purple pants. He slowly licked the shaft, focusing all of his attention on what to do to make it feel better, while a hand rubbed his head rather playfully through the cowl. Again, this would have been quite a pleasurable experience if not for the guilt that he still felt; but now, to make his plan work, he needed to silence it out, and attempted to do so by wrapping his lips around the erection and focusing on the loud moans that reached his ears.

As the hand moved from his head to his chin, and began guiding him towards a faster pace, he decided that was some significant improvement. The touch was gentle, and while that was odd, it was also a welcome change. Maybe, just maybe, this time it would not hurt...

The answer to that question was suddenly delayed by a low groan and release inside his mouth. Unprepared, and having not done this before, Bruce found himself gagging at the strength with which the stream tried to invade his throat, and pulled back, trying to cough it out on reflex. As a result, some of it ended up around his lips; it was hot, sticky and salty, hardly a sensation he would call pleasant. But when he looked up, his cheeks flushed in shame, he met an inane smirk of sly satisfaction.

“Oh, if you could only see yourself, Batsy,” the Joker laughed; he laughed darkly, but also, somewhere beneath that, was something else that the Knight could swear was akin to delight. “All nice and dirty and submissive and _still not laughing_!”

The blow to his cheek was both unexpected and more painful than he anticipated. He had really thought the reaction after having been serviced so willingly would be something more along the lines of _not_ hitting his slave, but then again, why in the great wide universe did he expect _anything_ of the Joker? He turned his head under the force of the blow – of course he could have easily withstood it, but that did not go well with his idea of playing the good little pet. He averted his gaze, but nothing else came as the clown simply turned and left him there.

Glancing briefly at the purple back, the Batman grabbed a towel to clean himself. The after-taste was still there, and it was possibly worse than the seed itself, but he had nothing to wash it out with other than water. He could not help but wonder what caused such an angry reaction? Was it just one of his usual moodswings?

Or did the Joker realize that his boytoy is trying to take control?

 

“ _Hush, little baby, don't say a word..._ ”

Alfred heard the words before he could see anything. Wherever he was, the room was dark and it took his eyes a longer moment to get used to it. And the fact that his head was spinning did not really help, though at least he was quite certain this was not Wayne Manor. Or at least not the hall, where he remembered being.

“ _Daddy's gonna buy you a mockingbird..._ ”

Getting up with him being so dizzy did not sound like a good idea, but he decided to take the chance. He has been in this sort of situations before more times than he could recall, and since he was still breathing, they went rather well. But as he soon realized standing was not an option, since something was holding him down on the highly uncomfortable and loudly creaking chair he was placed in. Rope, by judging by its roughness, especially around his wrists.

“ _And if that mockingbird won't sing..._ ”

The words came from somewhere in the shadows, and they were certainly not a recording. No one sings a lullaby in a voice so low and so hushed, in a menacing, almost nightmarish way. There was something familiar about that voice, even though he could not exactly put a finger on it. But as soon as his head finally began to clear, images and memories of what transpired before darkness came started to put all this in order. And when a dim light came to life a little bit to his left, and illuminated a horrifyingly familiar face, he understood.

“ _Daddy's gonna buy you a golden ring..._ ”

Bruce Wayne stepped towards him, holding an old-fashioned lantern in one hand, and a surgical knife in the other. Alfred had no problem recognizing the knife, of course, he himself has used one like it more times than he would want, mending the injuries of his boys after many a battle. But this was good news, in a way. The man held the blade expertly, obviously used to handling it despite his hands being somewhat large and visibly rough.

He was not the Batman.

He smirked at the restrained butler. “You're awake.”

“And you could use some singing lessons,” Alfred responded in his typical, impeccably polite tone. “I believe it was your song that woke me.”

The man's expression did not change and he appeared not at all offended by the remark. In the dim, flickering light he looked almost as sinister as the real Bruce Wayne did while wearing his cowl, but there was something different about this imposter. Something dark, malicious that the butler could not quite identify, but he saw it like a fire in those deep eyes. Eyes that did not belong to his master, much less to the little boy that he raised to become a hero.

Mesmerized by the eerie fire in them, he barely noticed bits of fabric hanging from underneath the man's long coat that looked like a scarf, but turned out to be slightly tattered bandages.

And suddenly, it all made sense.

“Now then,” the imposter straightened up to his not overly impressive height. Truth be told, he was much more alike Bruce Wayne than Alfred would like to admit. It was not just his face, but his entire body, his demeanour, even his voice. The resemblance was so detailed it seemed impossible that he could be anything other than some sort of clone. “I will be asking questions, and you will be answering.”

“I doubt I know anything you need,” the butler responded, and it was not entirely a lie. He appeared at the exact moment when the real Batman went missing, and arranged for at least one of the other vigilantes to be occupied elsewhere by the Scarecrow. The man before him, whoever he was, knew much more than he let them realize, and it was scary. “You must be the one who sent Professor Crane to us?”

Much against better judgement, the imposter shrugged, causing the dim light to flicker. “Merely a distraction,” he said. “Can't have you hero types interfering.”

“What with?” Alfred asked, still as calm as only he could be under the circumstance. But he was quite sure there was more to all this than met the eye; at least that was what he learned over the years as mentor and assistant to the Dark Knight himself. Whether it had something to do with the Joker and the tape, or perhaps poor Jason, was a question yet to be answered.

“Need to know basis, my dear Alf,” the man smirked again, causing the elder's eyes to widen in genuine surprise. Very few called him that, for he never liked that nickname. In fact... only one person ever called him Alf.

But before he could say anything, the surgical knife was brought to his temple, briefly gleaming in the dim light before disappearing from his view. He could feel the sharp end pressed against his skin. It was cold, and paired with the imposter's sinister smirk, also increasingly unpleasant.

“Shall we begin?”


	6. While Your Lips Are Still Red

_Kiss while your lips are still red_

_While he's still silent_

_Rest while bosom is still untouched, unveiled_

_Hold another hand while the hand's still without a tool_

_Drown into eyes while they’re still blind_

_Love while the night still hides the whithering dawn_

\- While Your Lips Are Still Red, **Nightwish**

 

Crime in Gotham seemed to increase since last night, but at the same time the vigilantes could not catch any rumours that would indicate that the Batman has gone missing. In other words, the underworld should not be aware that its greatest enemy is not there to take care of it. Of course, with him away, the others had to fill in, what in turn meant that criminals were not exactly free to do what they wished. It was just a different mask that stopped them this time.

But Robin could not help but fear the moment they would realize what really is going on.

It was nearing dawn and he felt terrible. He hardly slept lately, too worried about pretty much everything, with his stepfather on top of the list. In fact, the reason he went out at night to patrol the city was not to help its denizens as much as to find something that could help bring Batman home. He hoped against all odds that somewhere out there, someone would have something he could use; not even a copy of the tape, that was far too much to ask for, but a hint as to where to find one, a clue as to how to get rid of them, anything. Anything.

But the city was vast, its underworld even greater, and the chances of simply stumbling upon a hint below slim. He needed some sort of plan, an idea where to start looking, but he was not the only one. His job would be to get intel on any sort of network the tape could have been uploaded to, but since Batman's disappearance he could find no henchmen wearing clown masks, or any other indication that they could be working with the Joker. And without intel, Oracle was left to blindly wander across networks and databases in vain hopes of finding something. But the odds of her simply stumbling upon the file were no better.

Robin parked the bike in its usual spot in the batcave, and paused briefly, overwhelmed by the silence. He expected at least one of his associates – family – to be there, keeping an eye on the computer and sensors in case Bruce were to miraculously reappear somewhere, or contact them. But he seemed to be the only one present in the cavern, and the only sound he could discern was the screeching of the bats as they returned to their preserve after a night of hunting, much like himself. He looked around the place as he headed to the exit that led up to the manor, but again he saw no one. The computer was on, but nothing really happened on it as it was set to tracking locator beacons. His own and Nightwing's were offline, and Batman's was nowhere on the display. Which did not matter, they knew where the Joker told him to go.

And it changed nothing.

He stepped into the manor, closing the secret entrance behind himself and feeling more and more anxious. The room was not completely dark as the sun slowly and lazily began to rise; its rays did not reach him yet, but the darkness started to disperse. But there was one bat that did not return from the night, and what unnerved Robin even more was that the manor felt empty. As if everyone else just disappeared, and even though it was likely just an irrational fear born in light of recent events, he could not stop himself from hurrying out of the room to check how real it was.

Much to his relief, he nearly bumped into Nightwing in the door, who grabbed his arms to still him, seeing his anxiety.

“Whoa there,” he said, pushing him back into the room. “Where's the hurry?”

“... Nowhere anymore,” Robin admitted, deflating in his grip as adrenaline suddenly let go of him. “Scarecrow-?”

“I hung him off Arkham gates,” Dick stated as if it was something completely normal and trivial, and for them, in fact, it kind of was. “Graveyard's untouched and he won't be coming back any time soon.”

“Good,” Tim sighed. “That's good, at least that's dealt with.”

The other raised a brow, his expression effectively changing to one showing only that, colloquially speaking, shit hit the fan. “Um, Tim...”

The Boy Wonder turned to him quickly, as if struck by lightning, his eyes slightly widened in anticipation of something he probably did not want to hear at all. “Don't tell me,” he said. “Bad news.”

He earned a slow, apologetic nod in response. “I'm afraid Alfred's not in the manor, at least I couldn't find him anywhere,” he announced with a quiet sigh. “And neither the guy that claimed to be Bruce.”

There was a moment's pause in which the two vigilantes just kept looking at each other mutely, each lost in his own thoughts. That was to be expected; both knew that things were really wrong the moment Bruce Wayne entered the manor and remained the Joker's captive at the same time. Whoever went through so much trouble to impersonate the master of this house could not fool his family; his ward, his adopted son and his butler all knew that the man is an imposter. But against all reason, somewhere deep in Robin's mind, was some ridiculous hope that maybe, just maybe, things solved themselves.

Apparently not.

He span around and headed back to the grandfather clock. “I've just been to the cave,” he announced, opening the passage once more. “Alfred's tracer's off, but if it was on before, I can check the path it took on the computer.”

“ _I_?” Nightwing asked with a small frown, following him down into the cavern.

Tim stopped, not looking at him. “I have to be the one to go,” he said.

“Maybe you need to take a breath and rethink this...” Dick tried, but the words came out slowly, as if he himself was not really certain if he was saying the right thing. In the entire family, only he knew exactly why the boy would be so determined to get Alfred back himself; perhaps even a bit more than he wanted his stepfather back. True, Bruce Wayne adopted him not as his ward, but as his son, giving him a new name, a new home and a new family, all that he has lost. This meant the world to the Drake orphan and he never denied it, but there was something else very few considered.

Before he came to Gotham and effectively put himself into the role of the Boy Wonder, Timothy was very often left on his own in boarding schools as his parents were busy with their now non-existent company. Sometimes it was a good thing; it allowed him to go all the way to New York and back to get the Bat and his protégé back together, and to put his hero back into one piece after the death of Jason Todd. It also, at least for a while, helped him fill in as the Boy Wonder without much consequence, though that changed rather unexpectedly later on.

But most of the time the absence of his parents was not fun. They loved him, there was never any doubt, and he loved them. Everyone in the family knew it and no one denied it. But things were missing. The obvious things like little affection and lack of parental role models. He found himself in serious need of, especially, a father.

So he sought one elsewhere, consciously or not. Bruce came along and took care of him, taught him when he took on the Robin mantle. Then, when his mother died tragically and his father slipped into a coma, he did much more than that – he began raising him, showing him how to live a life as complicated as his. He did that even when Jack Drake woke, and even later when he recovered from his disability. The adoption was formality; the Batman was the closer thing he had to a parent of the two, and even though it pained him to think of his deceased father like this, it was the truth. But a few things were still amiss, after all, Bruce was never an open person. He always had time for him, and he showed him affection in his slightly bizarre, awkward way, and that was more than Tim could ever ask for.

But Alfred was different. He was much more open, and it was easier to talk to him about the things that bothered him. About all kinds of insecurities a teenage boy has, nothing out of the ordinary... except that one time, when he found himself different. Thinking of a guy he saw at school often when he should be thinking about a girl. About his perhaps not sudden, but growing and persistent interest in other males, about the pounding of his heart when a handsome classmate looked his way, and about the dreams he had been having involving men. And Alfred listened. Alfred understood, and comforted him, and helped him come to terms with himself. He was always there to reassure him there was nothing wrong with that, and eventually Tim also understood.

But during that time, when the dear butler gave so much to help him, the boy was ashamed to admit that there was one thing he never told the old man. Something he chose to tell someone else; he confined in his brother instead, and admitted to him that his love for Alfred grew beyond that of a friend or even grandfather. That his feelings became increasingly romantic as a troubled boy, deprived of his family, sought attention of men he hoped could fill the gap in his life and in his family.

It was insane, he knew it. But he also knew other things. He knew that Alfred sometimes hired prostitutes, and that was nothing unusual nor wrong in itself. The point was that they were always young women, not much older than Timothy himself. And then there was the time where the butler developed feelings for his late stepmother, Dana Drake, who again was much younger than he was. Yes, he knew Alfred's taste, at least part of it, and he was just hoping that the fact that he lacked a vagina was not much of an issue. This, too, he confined in his brother.

And Nightwing, though reluctant, did understand. Things like this did happen, even though it always seemed to be one of those things that always happened to other people. He did mention something about a specialist, but the boy would not hear it, possibly too ashamed of himself to ever speak of this to a stranger, or perhaps anyone else entirely. So that was how things remained for a while, the secret kept safe between the two of them.

But now Dick had to admit that he knew just how much Timothy needed to go there and save Alfred himself. And he would let him, his silence being a form of acceptance. He just hoped his feelings would not cloud the boy's judgement; but then again, that was one of the first things Batman taught them.

Robin was already by the computer, fiddling with its controls to try and call up previous records to see if there was a tracer somewhere on them, one tracer in particular. The other vigilante waited in anticipation, not wanting to interfere with his frenzied movements, his painful adrenaline and most of all, his heart that beat in growing fear.

Mere moments after a display that was called up showed a path that the tracer took, and by the looks of it, it started moving shortly after sunset, when both Nightwing and the Boy Wonder were occupied outside manor walls. It went off some distance into Gotham City, in a rather roundabout way, indicating that Alfred was being somehow moved against his will and that his captor needed to avoid certain spots for whatever reason. But the track ended abruptly near the old court of Solomon Wayne, ironically enough the ancestor to Bruce. That could mean only one of two things – that either the spot the butler was now in was somehow screened from detection, or that the tracer has been disabled.

Whichever the case, Tim wasted no time. He quickly fiddled with the wrist computer in his glove, transferring the data to himself. Neither of the two spoke, as the elder knew exactly what was going on in his head. That was one of the many advantages of the training they received; they knew one another so well in this family that they needed no words to act as one.

“It's getting light,” Dick observed.

“Robins aren't nocturnal,” the boy stated rather dryly as he headed back for his bike. He was more tired than usually after a night of fighting, but there was no time. They had exactly no idea what they were dealing with here, so he needed to act.

To save the man who raised Batman. The man who kept the whole operation _and_ the whole house running.

To save the man he was so insanely in love with.

 

The next time the Joker decided to grace his captive with his presence, the Bat had no real idea how to act. He certainly would not resist or put up any fight, for that would be risking far too much. He just remained where he was, chained to the wall in nothing but thin clothing the clown must have taken with him from Arkham at some point, and the cowl, and waited. As he once again stared at that pale, smirking face and into those deep eyes, he could not help but wonder – why?

Once, what seemed like a lifetime ago when poor Barbara fell victim to his grand killer joke, the jester made clear that what pushed him to such insanity was one bad day. One single day. He believed it. It made sense; in fact, that is exactly what made the Bat what he was. What irritated him, however, was the fact that he had no idea _what_ day that was. What happened? What was so painful, so horrible that it only needed a batch of chemicals to create the most random, the most tormented mind in Gotham's history?

Batman could not know. There were several different versions of Joker's past circling the underworld, and the GCPD had filed them all together and believed none. Even the criminal himself seemed uncertain which was the real one. Was it a sign of multiple personalities? Arkham doctors would have diagnosed that by now, for sure, and they have not, so it could not have been the case. Was it because he kept lying about himself so much he has forgotten the truth? Possibly; it is a known defence mechanism, when the brain blocks out the most traumatic of memories. Maybe this was one of those cases.

Or maybe each and every one of those stories was true. Maybe they were built on separate bits and pieces of what happened on that fateful day, and each escalated into its own independent reality. Which means he could reconstruct the Joker's past by stringing all the tales together... but how was he to know which bits were true and which were false?

But this time, when they got together again, something was different. They shared kisses, time after time, each deeper than the one before it. Bruce could taste something that he was sure had to be there before, but that was kept hidden from him, and that for some reason the Joker chose to reveal now. Could it have something to do with his acceptance of his position as the clown's little pet? Whatever the reason, he tasted desire, real, burning need, and perhaps a touch of love. A day ago he would have fiercely denied it, but now he could not care anymore; his master surely felt the same in the kiss, and everything became clear in a moment of purifying epiphany.

They were madly, insanely, but truly in love.

Everything else suddenly felt different, too. The Joker was much more... active than before, exploring the other's body with almost childish curiosity. His touch was gentle, making Batman shiver as he moved his hands and lips all around him, massaging, kissing and licking quite eagerly, as if wanting to mark him as his own once more. Bruce did not resist; he let those white hands roam, feeling his cheeks heat up under the mask as the sensation became more and more pleasurable in a very teasing way.

Eventually his sharp breaths turned into moans as he felt the touch on his most sensitive parts, outside and inside, and he melted into the bliss perhaps too eagerly. The lips engulfing him were warm, moist and the tongue assisting them soft. Bruce could not resist and chose not to, letting his body react naturally, and realization that he was giving into this sensation much more than he did with any of his previous lovers made him blush with what possibly was shame. But the bliss was too great, too overwhelming – and besides, he was the good little pet that obeyed his master without question.

Soon he was told to return the favour, but told without words. For some reason neither of them spoke at all, and it was unnecessary. The silence between them was filled with some odd feeling of understanding, eerily and unnervingly like that the one he had with his partners; with all the Robins, when they faced potentially fatal danger and dealt with it in perfect synchronization and without a single word spoken. That thought gave him mixed feelings, most prominent of which seemed to be fear. As he tasted the skin of that inhumanly white shaft, he could not help but wonder whether that meant that he trusts the Joker as much as he does his children, or was his mind simply in shambles?

The hardness inside his mouth caused them both to moan, but Bruce was pushed away after what seemed like mere moments and forced to lay on his back again. Though forced might be a bit too strong a word; the clown pushed him down by the shoulders, but with nowhere near as much strength as he would have used just a day ago. The Batman did not resist, of course, and as soon as he was on the floor he spread his legs wide and invitingly.

It did not hurt almost at all; his body was beginning to get used to the sensation, and it seemed that the Joker was much more careful this time. He did not go all the way in at once, moving slowly and pushing himself deeper in with each thrust. Though the only thing that did not change compared to before was the criminal's insane, broad grin. His eyes were fixed at his slave as he moaned and whimpered beneath him, the sounds forced out of him by careful strokes against his most sensitive spot. The Joker enjoyed seeing him like that, overwhelmed, vulnerable, his for the taking. He did not bother to hide it, eventually thrusting both faster and harder into his little pet, who in turn did not bother hiding how much he enjoyed it.

Batman was somewhat ashamed to find himself so turned on by this. He was hard and twitching, his erection demanding attention; he did not feel like this previously, when the clown had his way with him. But this was much better, much less painful and with a touch of unspoken, though obvious love. Before he knew it, the world went white as a release was forced out of him, so intense that he did not even notice that the Joker came at almost the same moment.

And then he found another thing that did not change. The clown left him there to compose himself in the afterglow, spent and dirty in all meanings of the word. Eventually he pulled himself up from where he lay, but instead of grabbing a towel, he moved to look through that tiny basement window that was so filthy he could barely gaze through. But he could see that it was night, out there in the funhouse, and that the moon was high up.

And he sat there, staring at it for a longer while, wishing he could have that loving embrace in different circumstances, that he and the Joker could maybe, just maybe, one day sit in his mansion and just enjoy each other like any couple would. The thoughts were almost infantile, he realized, like those of a child wishing upon a falling star that it had its own place free of fear and grief, and full of compassion, wishing that it had its own castle on a cloud.

 

Robin was afraid.

He had followed the path the tracer had taken originally despite pouring rain, looking for clues along the way as to where Alfred might be or what might have happened to him. Well, that was not the real question, they knew who had taken him from the manor. The problem was finding out why, what for and who that man really was. But much to Timothy's growing fear – and anger – he had found nothing on his way save for the tracer.

It was laying in a puddle merely a few steps away from the main door to the old court of Solomon Wayne, literally taken apart. Bits of fabric still dangled from it, meaning the false Bruce Wayne tore it off his captive along with the front of the shirt it was attached to, and proceeded to dismantling it in a very inelegant yet effective way. Unfortunately, that meant that his only lead on the butler cut off right here and the only option he had was blind search in hopes of stumbling upon him.

Again. He had searched blindly for the tape, Oracle searches blindly for the tape, and now he searches blindly for his beloved Alfred.

Things were just getting better and better, and he was just glad that the raindrops and his mask hid the fact that his eyes were becoming wet as well. Whether it was with fury at the universe in general for letting all this happen to them in such rapid succession, or whether it was because his heart's desire was in danger, even he could not tell. But he was sure of one thing – such feelings were as crippling as they were motivating.

He paused, pocketing the remains of the tracer. There was no need to let anyone fiddle with them. He needed to take a deep breath and consider the facts to make sure where he was standing. He knew for certain that the captor realized that Alfred had a tracking device on him, and got rid of it. From there he had two options – get his prisoner as far from this spot as possible to lose the chase that he expected would come, or take him wherever was closest to do what he intended to as fast as possible, before the pursuit arrives.

And Robin had very little to suggest which was more likely. The imposter arrived at Wayne Manor at a very convenient time – when the real master of the house was absent, _and_ when the Scarecrow was commissioned for a job involving the family. So in other words, when the Batman and all his associates were busy with concerns more pressing than a lookalike. It all seemed as if said lookalike knew exactly that they will be unavailable and chose that specific moment to show up, and as soon as Alfred was alone in the house, he acted. He was not suspecting any of the vigilantes, or Oracle, to notice that nor act on it anytime soon.

So the Boy Wonder decided that the more likely option was that he was still in the area.

The court was unguarded. Not having been in use for some time it was not really weird in itself, but at the same time it could have provided for a nice hideout, especially since the basement was equipped with holding cells. Tim wasted no more time; he entered through the creaking door, but there seemed to be no one inside to be alerted by the sound. The place was as deserted as he expected it to be, covered in a visible layer of dust, multiple cobwebs around corners, old portraits that lined the hallways, and even the damaged wooden staircase that led up to the second level. And there was silence, of that kind in which one could swear they heard the spiders walking on their webs.

Carefully, with staff in hand, he proceeded through the main court hall, but just as previously it was deserted and left to decay, which it already eagerly began. Fortunately the floor did not creak under his feet as he followed the marks left in the dust, past pieces of broken furniture and shards of glass from what once was windows. As he reached the other end of the hall, after a trek that felt like eternity, his heart was beating madly.

He heard something from the cell block below. Something like a groan, but it was not a groan of pain as much as a groan of exasperation, and quiet tapping of wood on bare tiles. That certainly did sound like there was only one person down there, attempting something, so either the imposter or Alfred. Descending the steps, Tim held the staff in front of himself, ready to strike unexpectedly if need be.

What he saw made his heart beat even faster. In one of the cells, locked seemingly haphazardly due to the significant age of its lock, sat Alfred, bound to an old chair. Apparently the tapping he heart was him moving the chair around in an attempt to get himself free; good old butler, he never forgot his MI5 training and never hesitated to use it. But there was more, sadly. On the left side of his face was a long cut, running from his temple all the way down to his chin – but it was made carefully, with precision, deliberately drawn along his features. It no longer bled, but smudges of blood covered a significant area around it, to the ear, on the cheek and forehead. Robin heard himself gulp as he noticed all that, hoping that was the extent of the butler's injuries.

“Alfred?” he said in a hushed whisper, approaching the cell door.

The man turned to him, not at all surprised to see him. It would seem there is really very little in this world that could make him lose his trademark British cool and professional attitude. “Good to see you, Robin,” he said. “But allow me to suggest you make haste before he returns.”

Nodding, Tim examined the lock only to find that the electronics were all essentially dead and of no use, meaning that the only thing holding them closed was the old conventional padlock the imposter hung through old holes in the door. And said padlock proved to be no challenge at all, and a moment after he was behind the elder and untying the rope that held him to the chair and his hands together.

“Can you walk?” he asked, his voice betraying more concern than he would hope for. “What did he do to you?”

“Not as much as he could,” Alfred admitted. “Aside of this cut I seem to have dislocated my wrist in an attempt to free myself, but that appears to be all.”

The boy did not hold a sigh of obvious relief. “We need to get out of here, I got here by batmobile, we'll be home in no time-”

The butler stood, his face expressionless. But as he rose from the old chair Tim was still bent right next to him, holding the rope, and for a fraction of a second their faces were no further than an inch away from each other. He flinched away on instinct, hoping that the other would take it as a sign that he just wanted to leave some space for him. But what he could not hide, and was certain he had at that moment, was a blush, partly obscured by the mask.

But if Alfred noticed it – and it was very difficult not to – he chose not to show it, simply readjusting his dirtied and somewhat torn suit with his good hand. But unfortunately his condition, worn by a pounding headache after having been so rudely knocked unconscious, paired with his age somewhat hindered his ascent and further trek to the door. That left Tim no choice but to support him on himself, wrapping one of the butler's arms around his own shoulders, and wrapping an arm around him for extra assistance.

And as he helped him walk out of the court, the feel of joy at finding him alive was overshadowed by the realization that now, certainly and beyond any doubt, Alfred knew.


	7. Blind As a Bat

_With every step I rise and fall_

_With everything to gain I end up losing it all_

_When the darkness gets in_

_I scream out and your light sets me free (…)_

_Your love is blind, blind as a bat_

\- Blind As a Bat, **Meat Loaf**

 

Ridiculous was nowhere near adequate to describe what was going on. Robin's personal issues did not help the case much, either. Nightwing understood perfectly why the boy shifted his priorities so rapidly and decided to go free Alfred; he loved that old man too, though in a different way, and did not want him harmed either. But this rather unforeseen change in plans seemed to have delayed their investigation of Batman's case, since the one who has been on it left someone with much less intel to deal with it.

Though, fortunately, it was not all for nothing. The sudden abduction at least yielded an answer to who the man pretending to be Bruce Wayne really is. They did not _like_ that answer, and could not really say much about why this was happening, but it made really strange, and really unnerving sense.

The man who took on the face and name of their adoptive father was none other than his childhood friend, Thomas Elliot. An accomplished surgeon, who by some sick joke of fate shared the name with Bruce's own father, for some reason returned to the city to replace his old comrade. It was obvious he wanted the money – really, who would not? - but there was much more to it, something that would explain why he went to such drastic, such horrid lengths to achieve that. Simple theft was clearly not enough. Something else was going on.

But all that did not really help them get the _real_ Bruce Wayne home. Nightwing could only pray the two cases were related, what would make their job much easier. Elliot did step in the moment the Batman went missing, but it could have as well be coincidence. Or perhaps the man was simply observing them somehow, and knew when to make his move. The possibility that he engineered it was there, but it would be a lie to claim it was greater than slim. No one controls or manipulates or orders the Joker.

Which, basically, left them at square one. They had gained nothing more than the few bits of information they already had, namely that the Batman was being held in the old funhouse, and that the tape that kept him docile was, well, _somewhere_. In fact, he only just realized that they did not really have any proof that it existed. His mentor and adoptive father apparently decided that it does; that, or whatever it contained was so bad that he decided not to take the chance. He preferred to hand himself over to his greatest nemesis and rely on his family to get him out of that mess rather than risk the tape being handed to the media. But his family – himself, Robin, Oracle, Alfred – had nothing but his unspoken word to confirm the tape's existence.

Nightwing tapped his finger on the batcomputer's keyboard rather idly, staring at the screen as his mind raced, struggling to embrace dozens of various thoughts at once. He was never the detective Tim was, but with him tending to their butler for a change, he had to deal with all this himself. At least for now.

“Maybe we're going about this the wrong way,” he said.

“What do you mean?” Oracle replied from her end of the connection. Visual was off, the screen displaying a slideshow of data they had stored on Joker's associates, his M.O. (which, of course, was never the same twice) and all sorts of other information that might, somehow, hint at where he could have stashed copies of that recording.

Dick sat back in the chair. “We're working under the assumption that there are copies.”

There was a pause. “So,” the girl finally spoke “you're suggesting there may be only one tape?”

“Or maybe even none,” he admitted. “All we know is that Bruce _did_ something that got him freaked out. But what proof do we have that it got recorded?” he flapped his arms in a rather exasperated manner, forgetting for a moment that she cannot see him. “It could all be one huge bluff!”

“I can see where you got the idea,” Oracle replied. “And I must say I wish it were true. But what reason do we have to believe it is?”

Nightwing frowned, both his arms behind his head now as he kept changing positions, more out of anxiety than discomfort. Unless the discomfort in question was in his head. Because that he had in abundance right now, so many questions, very few answers, and each answer only led to more questions.

“None,” he was forced to admit, staring at the high, barely visible ceiling of the cave. One of the numerous things Bruce taught him was to never assume, and never deny evidence. If evidence showed something that he deemed impossible before, than it could only mean that it was possible, however painful, horrid or preposterous it was. And if there was no evidence, there was nothing to act upon until some was gathered.

He could almost hear the nod in the girl's voice. “Then it's safer to assume copies exist than to act now and have whatever is on the tape shown to the public.”

“We're chasing shadows here,” Dick straightened up in the chair again, his eyes trailing the rows of text and images that slid before him and paying no attention to them. “We're looking for something we're not sure is real, somewhere we don't know, and until we have _something_ , one lousy lead, we're just going to drive ourselves insane.”

She groaned quietly, as if not really wanting him to hear that. “So it's back to the haystack.”

Nightwing muttered something along the lines of “mhm” as something among the slides caught his eye. He froze the display and, supporting his chin on one hand and the hand on the main panel, he stared. Before him, neatly fixed right next to all the information they had on the case, was the very familiar face of a certain man that he knew better than he would ever hope to. A face rather handsome, if thin, that of a thinker rather than a warrior.

And then it hit him.

The Bat's family operated in greys. In shady areas between good and evil, bending law whenever they saw it necessary to serve a greater purpose. This would be no different, right? They needed all the help they could get, and in this particular case, who knows, maybe they would hit the jackpot. Who better to ask for aid if not someone whose only advantage was knowledge and information?

“I have an idea...”

 

It felt weird to be the one tending to Alfred instead of being tended to _by_ Alfred, but Tim could not say he minded. He always liked to feel useful, and even though advanced medicine was not in his repertoire, he knew most of what he needed to deal with this. The butler had a nasty cut running along the left side of his face, from the forehead through the temple and down to the chin; but the cut was not deep, and by the looks of it, all it would take were a few stitches.

The man's usual British cool did not waver even for a moment as he instructed young Robin on how to sew him back together, and it was simply outstanding. That was one of the things Timothy admired in him, something he still needed to work on – composure, clarity of mind, focus. Hopefully the old butler would give him a few lessons on this later.

“There,” he said, putting the medical kit away and removing the gloves he had worn for protection. “Done.”

Alfred looked at himself in a hand-held mirror, carefully surveying the slightly gruesome work the boy had done. “I must say, a job well done, Master Tim.”

He earned an honestly warm smile in reply. “Really?”

“For a first time, yes,” he said, putting the mirror away. But as he met Robin's disappointed frown, he smiled. “Now now, I was only teasing.”

“You should take a day off,” the Boy Wonder said, hoping to change the topic before he is teased any further. He did not like being the butt of any jokes, even those affectionate ones, and he got his share of those from Dick already. That, and he was partly afraid that if Alfred continued, he would make him blush again. And that was not something he was looking forward to.

The butler stood, a little shakily still, but more steadily than he walked back in the old courthouse. His wrist also appeared to be better. Oh, what wonders British tea was apparently capable of, or at least the man claimed it was. He was a lot like the master of the house in some respects; though he knew the limitations of his own body, sometimes, when he deemed truly necessary, he pushed past them without regard to his own health. While his judgement on when that was necessary proved astonishing thus far, it was obvious that he would refuse even a few hours of rest as long as his employer – friend – _son_ was away and in danger. He could do little more than the other members of the Batman family already did, but he would be damned if he just sat back idly.

He could at least serve them some miraculous British tea.

“Really, Master Tim,” he frowned slightly, the smile he bore before turning back to his usual stern expression. “This family would be doomed if I took a day off.”

Timothy could not help but smile at that remark. Oh, that certainly was true. Things would certainly go downhill, and fast, without the man that did the cleaning, cooking, mission coordination, communications, medicine, mechanics and a number of additional skills not usually found on butler resume. “Then I guess it's back to work for us, then,” he said. “At least take it slow, okay?”

Alfred gave him a small nod. “Certainly, young sir. But...”

There it was. That pause after the short yet very accented “but” that suggested what was to follow was either unpleasant or very unpleasant. That pause in which the air became noticeably thicker, and in which Robin felt his own heart skip a beat. “... But what?” he finally asked, bracing himself for the impact.

The elder eyed him slowly as he spoke. “Is there perhaps something you would wish to tell me?”

The boy deflated visibly. Now was the time to make the choice of either telling him the truth or not. He was pretty sure Alfred already knew the truth, whether from what transpired in the courthouse, or perhaps some signals he unconsciously slipped before that. The man was a splendid detective himself. So if Timothy lied about his feelings, it probably would not sit well with the butler. And would just put him back in the position he is in right now, a position of quiet, senseless longing for something out of his reach.

But if he told the truth, he risked being heartbroken. Risked? It seemed almost certain that he would be. Though that tiny spark of hope in the back of his mind kept repeating that maybe, just maybe, it is worth a try. All in all, the man before him was not one to change his mind about a friend – family – that easily, and if things did not go the way Robin wanted them to, their relationship would simply not change.

Right?

All that flashed through his mind in mere seconds, and then he said: “... I think I love you.”

Alfred smiled, but the smile was visibly saddened. “Oh, my boy...”

Tim turned away from him the moment he heard the words, his cheeks heating up, but with incoming tears rather than a blush. Those words, the tone in which they were spoken expressed it all. He had no idea rejection which you expect could hurt this damn _much_...

He felt himself shiver as a hand was laid on his shoulder, but he managed to stop himself from turning around to face the butler. For some reason he did not want to look him in the eye, though he was not sure if it was because of the pain of rejection, or embarrassment at having suggested that in the first place.

However, he was not allowed to contemplate that for long. Before he managed to make a step and just leave, he was abruptly turned around and embraced by a pair of thin, somewhat bony arms. Puzzled by the sudden show of affection, he could not find enough reason in himself and simply sunk into the hug, closing his eyes shut as tears threatened to gather in them.

“Hush, Timmy...” Alfred said in a very soft tone. Then they both realized just what it was he said; Nightwing told them of what the Scarecrow let him know before, and whether they liked it or not, that one word made them think of that sickening criminal. But they let it slide, especially since the boy shivered in his beloved's arms at the sound of his name. Very few called him that nowadays; in fact, Dick seemed to be the only one, and he certainly did not expect to hear that from Alfred, of all people.

When he looked up at him, still surprised at being called that, his lips were claimed in a kiss. He eagerly parted them, letting the man explore him with his tongue; he moaned, his face flushed deep red, and some instinct forced him to close his eyes as the kiss continued into what seemed like an eternity. But it had to end, too soon, and Tim could only utter a disappointed groan.

“Hush,” Alfred whispered, holding him close and smiling as he felt something rather stiff pressing against his thigh. There was something odd in that smile, however. The sharp features of the man's face, worn and tired with time, gained an almost sinister shadow, something sly hidden behind what was normally warm and caring. Timothy tried to pull away a bit, not sure how he felt about this sudden change, this side of the butler that he had not known before, but the arms would not let go. Sure, he could just force his way out, but he did not want to hurt him...

He glanced around, but the cave was empty and quiet, save for the faint humming of computers. Nightwing has long since left to deal with... something, he refused to say when Robin brought the rescued man back home. He claimed he was nothing like the Batman, but everyone knew that was really not the case. He kept proving it time by time, now by leaving his little brother all alone with the butler. And Tim was not really certain whether that was good or bad anymore.

A thin, yet still strong arm was wrapped around his waist, and another around his back as Alfred claimed him in another deep kiss. But this time it was a bit more... demanding, perhaps, more ravenous and very, very arousing. The boy felt himself blush, but he could not tell if his cheeks were hot because his mind was focusing on the heat much lower than that. He was not sure whether he was more unnerved at that little smirk that crept onto the older man's face, or at the hand that travelled lower and gripped his rear tightly.

Unnerved? _Unnerved_? Why was he? He wanted this, right? He has been wanting this for some time, to be touched like this, by this and only this man, to be claimed in the most intimate, most complete way possible.

But he did not count on him behaving that way. He had no idea Alfred could be this... commanding, his mind decided as his neck was being hungrily kissed over the collar of his Robin costume. He had never imagined this calm, composed Brit could be so _feral_. And they have only just begun...

Tim let out a soft moan, leaning back slightly into the arms that were embracing him, most likely on instinct. He was not sure what to do. Of course he knew the theory, there was no way a boy his age could not know what sex was, and of course he has practised it on himself. But now that it was actually happening, that he was getting so close, he found himself frozen with a mix of excited anticipation and uncertainty. And the latter he never really liked.

Alfred moved swiftly and in a very practised manner as he began removing the boy's costume, starting by dropping the dark cape onto the cave floor. These outfits had one big perk, they were made to be put on and taken off in under a minute, but even knowing that, the butler completely bypassed the red vest and moved straight to the belt. This he removed carefully and set it aside, minding all sorts of equipment stashed inside it, but all that time he had his other arm around Robin, as if keeping him in place.

And a moment after it was very clear why. The Boy Wonder shivered as a hand slid into his pants and engulfed the hardness it found there. He could not tell why; not that he did not see this coming, and he thought he knew how it would feel. Well, he was certainly wrong on the latter account. The sensation was more intense than the one he could give himself, and the hand felt different, too – rough and somewhat bony, and very gentle at the same time. Timothy melted into the embrace as the man rubbed him at an excruciatingly slow pace, succeeding in only fuelling his arousal more without bringing him even an inch closer to completion.

He finally decided to make his move, fumbling with the belt and pants of that neat, dark suit. They did not need to be completely naked – and in fact, doing this in the middle of the batcave, of all places, put them at risk of being seen by either Nightwing, who could return at any moment, or Oracle, who might call with video feed enabled. But somehow his mind was in all the other places, ignoring the threat of being seen half-nude, wanton and in the arms of another male. He should know better than to let his feelings get the better of his reason, but down here, in the cave that was part of his home, he felt so secure that he could not care.

Or perhaps it was just the erection trying to rationalize irrational behaviour. That was also likely.

The hardness in his hand twitched with his every stroke, making him blush even deeper as he matched Alfred's rhythm. For a moment there was nothing but their quiet moans and sighs as they pleasured each other, Tim's heart pounding in ecstasy as he rested his head in the crook of the butler's neck, giving into the bliss of the moment and listening to the man's own hastened heartbeat.

After some time, he had no idea how long, the hand let go of his throbbing shaft and he was gently yet firmly pushed down onto the cave floor. With one hand the elder spread the Robin cape a bit, making sure the boy sits down on it and is shielded from the cold stone. When he sat, he looked adorable in his oblivion, legs spread slightly and palms of his hands rested in front of him on the dark cape. Alfred could not help but chuckle at that image and kissed the boy with even more passion than before, knowing that no matter what he does or what is done to him, there was probably nothing that could kill the innocence of Tim Wayne.

The butler pressed himself against the boy, pushing him down onto his back until he was laying flat, their erections touching. Delighting in the quiet moans he forced out of that young throat, he moved like that rather slowly, sending jolts of intense pleasure through both of them with each thrust. He could not help but continue to kiss over that collar and around those reddened cheeks, and adoring that wanton expression.

Those shining blue eyes met his and Robin managed to breathe out a sentence. “Alfred...” he said, his voice little more than a whisper. “Will you... will you take me...?”

“Can you bear pain?” the man asked, implying exactly what would come if they crossed that threshold. All this happened on a whim, in the heat of the moment, and they were not ready. They certainly did not have any lubrication, and they knew better than to meddle with anything even remotely chemical Bruce kept in the lab.

Tim nodded frantically. He was pretty sure he could. Hell, he was barely seventeen, and already went through more pain of either kind than most people his age could ever take. Or many people much older than him, in fact. He had faced heartbreak and loss of his parents as well as numerous broken bones, concussions, internal bleeding, you name it. What he supposed could be sharp but mild pain in his rear did not seem all that scary.

Alfred moved off him and spread his legs further, but the boy stopped him with a quiet “um”. The first response was a deep, questioning frown, but he struggled with words, not sure how to state what he was thinking. He was never good at talking sex, he just seemed to have this weird block that stopped the sounds from exiting his throat. “Uh,” he tried again “in my belt... um, there's a condom...”

The elder smiled and reached for that famous belt, glad that the boy had his head on straight even at times like this, where many wanted to simply loose themselves in pleasure. He was pretty certain he knew which satchel that was, and moments later he was already rolling the condom onto himself. It was Robin's time to be amazed. Alfred was not young anymore, though admittedly he was not really that old either. However, he had to admit part of him was worried about all sorts of issues that his now lover could have with this whole ordeal, but he tried hard to shut those thoughts out. They were in the way. They made him worry. And he did not want to worry at a time like this.

He pulled his legs up to his chest the moment Alfred was back between them, giving him a grand view of his rear and easy access. Although it made him blush possibly deeper than he ever blushed before – and he does that at every damn opportunity, it seems – he could not care anymore, he just wanted this to happen, he wanted to go all the way and give himself to the man he loved.

Something rather hard was pressed into him, making him utter a quiet whimper, even though there was no actual pain at that point. The butler did not go deep in, in fact, he barely prodded the boy's entrance, each time pressing a bit more of himself past the orifice to give him time to adjust and feel comfortable. Timothy just laid back, holding his legs relatively in place and letting out quiet sounds from time to time, but he was not sure where they came from. Alfred sure knew what he was doing, stretching him skilfully and apparently effectively; so effectively that the Boy Wonder felt the shaft inside him only when the tip was pushed in, but the pain he expected was only mild discomfort thus far.

The elder smiled and started moving his hips against the exposed rear, deeper and deeper, and at one point Tim could no longer deny that it started hurting. But there was something else beneath that, too, an eerie, intense pleasure that washed over him in waves each time his lover brushed against something inside him, and a tiny voice in the back of his head reminded him what it was, but he barely paid attention. He focused on that pleasure, and on those deep eyes that stared down at him, on that warm smile, those pale lips...

He opened his mouth slightly and leaned forward, seeking a kiss. That was what he received, long and deep, and as he struggled for breath and moaned at the same time, he was certain that Alfred loved him too.

A whimper was forced out of him again, and only then did he realize that he can feel the man's hips against his cheeks, meaning that all of the pulsing shaft was now inside him. The thought itself made his head spin for a moment, but aroused him even more; he could swear his own erection twitched impatiently. With a silent approval from the butler, he moved a hand from where it was supporting his leg near the knee to the more pressing matter. He touched himself like he did more times than he could count, wrapping his fingers around it, and tried to match the pace at which he was being invaded.

And oh, how he loved that invasion. The pleasure he gave himself quelled the sharp pain in his rear, and all he could do now was moan. The moans grew louder and came more often. His legs twitched in this not so comfortable position, but he ignored them. His eyes fell shut as the bliss overwhelmed him, and from then all there was to the world was the soft panting of his lover, his warmth and closeness, and the sensation of a dream come true.

Then, it was over. Too soon, too suddenly, too quickly. Tim struggled to catch breath, slowly lowering his legs and looking down on his hand. Some of his seed got onto it, but most ended up on his Robin vest. But all that became insignificant once more as he was kissed, and responded, softly and lovingly.

Alfred carefully withdrew, pulling out very slowly as to not make the boy any more uncomfortable than necessary. Only when he was out again did Tim notice that the butler has, in fact, had an orgasm as well. But whether it was at the same moment as his, after it, or perhaps even before it, he could not tell. Not that it mattered.

He sat up and hugged the man tightly, smiling. No words were exchanged, but none were needed as they sat there for a longer moment, dirty, sweaty, all messy and very happy with each other.

 

Arkham Asylum stank.

Sometimes that statement even became literal. Mostly when it rained, though. The outrageously outdated plumbing was bound to bring stenches few experienced voluntarily. Nightwing, however, did not have the luxury of choice that night. Well, technically he did, but in truth there seemed to be no other way if he wanted to ever see Batman again. So he just had to bear it, both the pouring rain and the stench of the sewers beneath the compound.

Elizabeth Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane. Criminally was right, and insane even more. Gotham had a weird tendency of attracting crooks of all kind, committing felonies of all sorts, from petty muggings through tax fraud to almost ritual murders. And the best – sarcasm included – part was that they all were kept very close to each other, sometimes separated by nothing but a layer of concrete or glass. Even spread across the various facilities that constituted the asylum they were far too close to each other for Dick's liking, but that was not something he could do. Every inmate was ruled clinically insane and was there for treatment and not imprisonment. That was what Blackgate was for.

Not that either did its job.

Nightwing heaved himself over the gates gracefully, having not only retained his circus acrobatic skills, but having perfected and refined them over time. There were few manoeuvres he could not pull off, always looking as if he was born during one, and for purposes of a metaphor that could be called true. But his grace was almost instantly overshadowed by the grimness and darkness of the place.

The asylum transported you back in time.

Its buildings, settled across the small island, were not only old. They were _aged_ , they had more than just a number of years. They had all signs of having lived those years on the outside and on the inside, they have literally stopped a few decades ago. Even the church looked like it belonged in another time, but that was nowhere near bad. Intensive treatment and the medical facility were by far the worst, filled with outdated tools that no one used anymore unless they were shooting a 50s horror movie. And that was hardly and exaggeration; lined with old stains of blood and other unidentified excrements that someone did not completely clean before, or dead bodies respectively, the buildings were nothing short of horrifying. Add to that the insane laughter, muttering and the sheer realization you are among people who would gauge your eyes out with their bare hands, and Arkham suddenly became the last place you want to be.

The cases of Arkham treatment actually helping someone recover from whatever was ailing them was so scarce that the files should be put in some sort of glass display boxes, Dick mused to himself. In fact, the only case he could recall off the top of his head was Arnold Wesker, or the Ventriloquist, being cured of his multiple personalities. He was a very diligent Wayne Enterprises employee, in fact.

But that was not important at the time. Fortunately he has managed to gain himself some renown as Nightwing, and the guards did not have much trouble letting him in once he explained what he came for in the first place. Of course he did not tell them all the details, that would be both absurd and compromising to Batman... who probably would not need to answer even one question, but he could leave feeling sorry for himself for later.

He did not need the guards to show him the way, but they insisted on escorting him to his destination nonetheless, claiming protocol required it. If anything happened – shit hit the fan, to put it more colloquially – they would most likely not be of much help, despite the firearms, tear gas and protective kevlar they were equipped with. Thing was, they were probably very well aware of that, and yet they took their vigilante guest, lacking a better word, through the old, weary corridors.

They looked dirty. They were not, of course, Arkham had its cleaning service, but the walls and floors and ceilings were so worn with age that they appeared to be stained everywhere and no amount of detergent could change that. In several places they really were stained with anything from old food to blood, but no one paid it any attention anymore. Possibly because the moment you bleached that out, a new liquid would just drop onto that same spot a day or two later.

To get where he was going, they needed to pass a cell block, and that was the bit that got under Dick's skin most. Some of the inmates used to scare him when he was little, especially in combat, much to his disadvantage. That changed over time, but here, in this grim setting straight from a mad scientist's wet dream, it got worse again. They were supposed to be harmless, locked away behind layers of bulletproof glass, thick concrete walls and all sorts of automated security systems and defences. Even though they continued to make their escapes time after time, making the asylum famous for its figurative revolving door, most days they resorted to taunts and comments from their cosy little cells.

Nightwing did not like listening to them. In fact, he was sure that even Batman himself was not keen on hearing all they had to say. He stared ahead of himself as he walked, trying to focus on the path before him rather than the voices around, but he could not help catching the comments that flew his way. He heard Ivy scowl at him, but was not sure if she actually uttered any words as they drowned in Harley Quinn's loud and vocal squealing at the injustice of the local vigilante's keeping her separated from her puddin'. Scarecrow muttered something about his fears, and even though he had no way of knowing what Dick was truly afraid of, his voice was so hushed as he spoke that it made him shiver. There was the Hatter, sitting on the floor in the middle of his cell and repeating the name “Alice” over and over.

What infuriated Nightwing was that many of them were not responsible for their actions. They were victims of disorders, insanity, tragic past, not unlike himself. He knew it very well.

And he still hated what they came to be.

Because if one bad day could make a man into either the Batman or the Joker, what was the deciding factor?

He and the guards finally reached a small room at the end of the long, silent corridor. It had no windows, of course, and the heavy iron door thundered almost as its echo broke the overwhelming lack of sound. A man already waited inside; a man Dick knew very well, more than he would ever want to, but only because he needed to research him thoroughly in order to get him behind bars and to therapy. His hair was always messy, no matter how much attention he paid to it, but it worked well with his thin face. His clothing, however, contradicted the hair style in being neat at all times. Funnily enough, he sometimes even ditched the glasses he was often seen wearing, suggesting his eye sight is not as bad as it may seem.

He was one of those inmates that did not rely on strength to get them what they wanted. Oh, no, he preferred brains, of which he had an abundance. And it proved to be his advantage over many who could crush him with one blow. In a way, it made him much more formidable than the likes of even Killer Croc.

And now those brains were needed for a cause quite different than the ones he was used to.

Nightwing sat opposite him by the table, his expression stern and fixed almost in stone. “Eddie,” he said “we need to talk.”


	8. Bells of Notre Dame

_So here is a riddle to guess if you can,_

_sing the bells of Notre Dame -_

_what makes a monster and what makes a man?_

Bells of Notre Dame - reprise, **Hunchback of Notre Dame**

 

These past several days – he was no longer sure how many – the Batman saw the Joker only when the latter came down into the basement for sex. Those encounters were usually preceded by a few words, a short remark or a joke that no one would ever find funny. But those were little more than formality, a necessary compliance to some sort of unspoken rule. And after that came the sex, and then the Joker would leave without another word spoken.

But the Knight could not help but notice that the intercourse changed since he first arrived at the funhouse. It began as a sign of his defeat, a way of humiliating, _punishing_ him for all he has done. It was meant to hurt physically and mentally, and the latter more than the former. Bruce never cared much for bodily injury, even when he risked crippling himself for life when his spine was fractured; and even though his captor had no way of really knowing that, he has seen the Bat shake off all sorts of wounds. But the mind was not something he could mend so easily, and it did not take knowing his real name to figure that out.

It seemed obvious that someone who runs around rooftops in a bat suit and beats up those he calls the bad guys cannot be completely normal. The only difference between him and the costumed Arkham inmates was where they drew the line.

The Joker was in fact the only of his adversaries that realized just how truly vulnerable the Crusader is. He has seen it in him first during that one bad day he forced upon him, when he chose the Gordons as his guinea pigs; when he chose to cripple one physically, one mentally. He has seen the Batman's eyes filled with fear and pain, and he knew that he cared, even though he did not understand.

But what exposed the Knight's heart most was the tragic death of Robin. This the Joker knew far better than anyone on his side of the war. After all, he was the one who took such delight in torturing the boy, in hitting him with that famous crowbar time after time, and finishing the show with a literal bang. And even before he realized that Robin was in fact Jason Todd, he knew he has torn something out of his rival that he could never completely replace. That day Batman has lost a Robin, and Bruce Wayne has lost a son.

What the clown was doing do him now was only adding insult to injury, almost literally. Forcing his desires to surface in a manner so malicious, so invasive was perhaps not the worst thing he has experienced, but it certainly made it near the top of that list. No one has ever hurt him like that; a heartbreak was nowhere near the same, and even that one time when Talia drugged and used him as a sperm bank did not feel so violating.

But that changed suddenly, without warning, and the Joker became more gentle with him. There still was pain, but the clown for some reason began caring for his pleasure and made sure that the Bat enjoyed it as well. And from that moment on everything else felt different as well. The kisses, the stares, the insane grins.

Yet, this day proved to be different in an entirely new way. The jester approached his little pet in the basement, and simply sat before him cross-legged, his palms pressed onto the cold floor between his legs. That would have constituted a rather adorable image had it not been so creepy. And the fact that the space between them could be measure in inches did not necessarily help the case.

“Hey,” the Joker grinned. “How are you, Batsy?”

The other remained silent, trying to asses what was expected of him this time. With this man, you never really knew.

“Aww, don't be like that,” Joker made a mockingly hurt face, but a brief gleam in his eyes suggested there was some truth to that expression. “Didn't you miss me?”

Bruce hesitated, but nodded his head slowly. In fact, he did not have enough _time_ to start missing him, but he had to pay the good little slave. He received a hearty laugh in response, and the soft, red lips pressed against his.

He found himself kissing back more eagerly than he wished to, but that both helped the obedient pet play and appeased that part of him that was happy and demanded more.

“Look at you,” the Joker said, his tone low in a very sinister manner, eyes narrowed and lips curled up in a nasty grin. “Hungering, lusting for none other than me. _Me_!” he laughed, making the man flinch away. “A criminal! A murdering maniac!”

The Batman felt a burning urge to bury his gaze in the stone floor, and gave in. Up until now he perceived the clown as little more than a person in serious need of therapy. A dangerous, cruel and malicious mass murderer, but still in need of therapy. What differentiated him from everyone else in the asylum was partly his unpredictable randomness, but mostly his origin. Many in the cells were created after the Bat arose in the night, but only the Joker was made _famous_ thanks to him.

Rumours circled Gotham that most of the asylum's wardens shared a controversial if not outrageous view on the inmates, presumably dating back to Amadeus Arkham himself. It was said that he founded the place not to help the wicked, but to _study_ them and rid the world of them. That he wanted to know why they were what they were, but it was a morbid, sick fascination of the kind that will not let you look away from a traffic accident. Amadeus Arkham knew the inmates were different from normal people, as he would have put it, and that they in many ways were subhuman. They were monsters.

The Bat did not agree. His definition of a monster did not exactly overlap with what the people believed back then. They chose to be that way, monsters were the likes of Bane and Deadshot and the Cluemaster. Monsters belonged in Blackgate.

Those in Arkham were victims.

He was well aware that few would stop to consider the logic behind his reasoning, and even fewer would agree. At times he had doubts if his own family, Dick and Tim and Alfred-

Dick. Tim. Alfred. He was certain they would come for him, but what would they think? Could he lie to them about what was on that tape? No, they would have figured that out by now. Could he lie about how that happened?

No. He has misled them far too many times.

They would hate him...

A white hand brushed against his cheek, right under the cowl, and brought him back to reality. The touch felt comforting, almost, but the charm shattered instantly when Bruce noticed the fixed insane grin.

“Why the long face, Batsy?” the Joker asked, apparently taking some sadistic pleasure in seeing him sad; the same that pushed him towards rape, it seemed.

“What reason do I have to be cheerful?” the Knight replied, allowing himself a small frown. It was a broader question than he realized. He wanted to refer to the situation he was currently in, but the words ended up encompassing his life all on their own.

He _had_ reasons for joy, and he clung to them for dear life. His surrogate father and his adopted sons meant the world to him, even more so since the loss of Jason.

But he had no reason to say this out loud. He did not think the Joker would understand.

Oh, but he did. The Joker understood perfectly.

“Why,” he smirked. “You're here with me, of course!”

With this, he brought his face even closer to the other man's, their lips almost touching, but the unnerving expression made Batman inch away.

“Your dark desire...”

Bruce held a growl. He wanted to tell him to stop, to snap at him, to reach out and wring that smug neck. But he could not. It would violate his most fundamental rule, his sacred vow, but it would also go against those desires that he denied so long. He knew that he became transparent to the jester, like an open book that he could read at will and jump to any point and find out that it was the butler who murdered. His body betrayed him and told things about him that he himself did not realize.

“What do you know about my desires?” he asked, but his voice was nowhere near as harsh or as deep as it normally would sound. There was a subtle hint of defeat in it.

The Joker allowed himself a nasty, wide grin. “Everything!” he chirped. “I know exactly what you want, Batsy, but more importantly _why_.”

“Then enlighten me.”

That demand was met with hearty, echoing laughter. “Oh no no no no no,” the clown waved a finger, like one does when teaching children what they should not do. “ _You_ enlighten _me_.”

He moved closer again, making Batman pull away until his back was against the cold wall. Their lips almost touched, like before, and the Knight felt himself shiver.

“Tell me,” the Joker breathed in a hushed whisper, his breath teasing the other man's lips. “Tell me what you've never told anyone before. Tell me why you're here.”

Bruce paused and bit his tongue in time, stopping himself from saying “the fucking tape”. Well, fucking was a very good word, indeed. But that was not it. The fact that the tape existed in the first place was a result of something, and it was that something that he never told anyone.

He was never very vocal about his feelings. For a long time he tried to hide he had any at all, believing that if he distances himself from them, the pain will just go away. It was naïve and foolish of him, and the appearance of Dick Grayson in his life began breaking the wall he built around himself. He never really learned how to talk about these things, so he chose to show them through action instead. How he tracked down Haly's Circus to bring Dick an old teddy bear the boy left behind. How he made him his legal son. And then little Tim, now also a Wayne. All this were signs of his affection, of his love.

But that was not the kind of love in question here. It was much closer to what he felt for some of the women he invited into his bed. Most of them were merely covers for the Bat, yet some he grew more attached to. Selina Kyle, Catwoman, first to have gotten so close to his heart. Talia al Ghul, who betrayed his trust like no other managed. And yet, now that he thought about it, he did not recall ever saying those three magic words. To any of his women, to his sons, to Alfred, his surrogate father.

The three magic words that were now demanded of him.

“Love,” he managed, hoping that would be enough of an answer.

Joker smirked. “I can't heeeeeear you,” he sang, his lips brushing against Batman's for a fraction of a second.

“I love you,” the Knight repeated, feeling his cheeks heat up beneath the cowl. He could not tell whether it was a blush, or tears making their way to his eyes. He was not one to cry, but he did, sometimes. Even he had limits.

A tongue trailed his lips, making him shiver. “Say it again.”

“I love you,” the Batman said.

And when he was claimed in a deep kiss, soft and gentle and so oddly comforting, he knew that his feelings were not unreturned, and the heart in his cheeks was in fact a tear.

 

Edward Nigma looked up from his crossword puzzle, pencil still in hand. Most of the words have already been filled in, and the man's thin face lit up with interest that has not been there before. He sat back in the creaking chair, gazing at the costumed man from behind his glasses.

“I don't get visitors often,” he said in a calm, conversational tone. “Especially ones of such renown. Mixed, but still renown.”

“Flattering,” Nightwing replied perhaps more harshly than he intended, his brow rising slightly under the domino mask. “I'm here on business and we have no time to fool around.”

“Business,” the Riddler repeated, a small grin creeping onto his unshaven face. Paired with his unkempt hair in the rare hue of red, and a peculiar gleam in his eye, it added up to an image of a cold, calculating maniac. “And what sort of business would you have with a monster like me?”

The vigilante paused, his eyes narrowing. The words sounded casual, but nothing this man said was every without meaning. The problem was to discern what that meaning was. Did he try to imply that the Gotham capes treated him like some sort of subhuman, a creature more in line with the likes of Killer Croc than humans? Or was it about that hidden contempt he harboured for himself and his own insanity?

“Please, Eddie,” Nightwing said, his tone almost playful, and the smile on his face quickly matching it, much to the prisoner's annoyance. The first Robin was famous for his cheerful attitude and a mouth that never stopped talking. “We both know there are worse monsters than you.”

It all boiled down to how one defined the word, he concluded as he watched that fire in the Riddler's eyes flicker for a split second. He was not sure what it meant – perhaps he was irritated at being called Eddie by friends and foes alike – but he expected to find out shortly.

And he was not disappointed. “Riddle me this, birdie,” Nigma said. “Is a bat the same as monster?”

“No,” Nightwing replied without a moment's hesitation. “But I will be if you don't listen.”

The inmate rolled his eyes, and his chest heaved as he let out a silent sigh. “Alright, boy. What do you want from little old me?”

“Help,” the vigilante admitted, and did not even flinch as the reply earned a hearty chuckle. “There is one monster that's done something we need you to undo.”

“And which monster would that be?” Edward asked, genuinely curious what was hidden under the definition the capes used. Even though this one did not really wear a cape.

“The Joker.” The answer was simple, yet enough to wipe the smile off the Riddler's face. The Joker. A unique case no matter what angle you viewed him at. Unpredictable, chaotic, maniacal, murderous, plain batshit crazy. And bat was a very good word. The general populace feared him, those who worked for him never wished to get on his bad side, and even those that were more or less his equals did not enjoy his company. Except for Harley Quinn, but she was a unique case herself, and rumours had it her “puddin'” left her hanging off a bridge somewhere lately.

“Not surprising that you can't handle him,” Nigma commented. If they needed him, he could afford a limited amount of smugness. But his expression was stern and did not bear any hint of amusement. “What's the Clown Prince done this time?” he asked, not giving into the temptation of providing mocking examples.

Nightwing sat on the desk, not even noticing that the unfinished crossword ended up under him as well. The other man simply waited, and when the reply came, it was short, to the point and somewhat disturbing.

“He's got Batman.”

The thin, red eyebrows rose slowly behind glasses. “Wouldn't be the first time, I imagine,” the prisoner said carefully in an attempt to gain more information. That simple, largely reluctant statement certain implied that previous situations like this have been resolved without his involvement.

Fortunately, the masked man did not need to be whacked on the head with a hint. “Batman was blackmailed,” he said, in a low, grim tone that clearly suggested this needs to stay in the room. “The Joker recorded something and used it against him.”

Nigma nodded slowly, his eyes trailing up the blue stripe on the arm that was rested mere inches away from him. “And my role in this would be...?”

“To help us locate and erase all existing copies of that recording,” Nightwing said matter-of-factly, expecting something along the lines of a mocking grin or amused laughter, or even just a snort. But nothing like that came; the green eyes just stared at him from behind a layer of glass that seemed almost protective, shielding them from the outside world, but at the same time it caged that inane fire.

“So the Dark Knight is in over his head,” the Riddler said in an unnervingly flat tone, and the words made the vigilante wonder just what his mentor was _in_ right now. And he immediately regretted it.

“I didn't come to ask you for commentary,” he said, but did not sound much like the Nightwing that prowled the streets of Gotham. It seemed like he was very careful with his words, and that could only mean that what he wanted was truly important and – moreover – that a lot depended on Nigma's participation.

The inmate leaned back in his chair in an attempt to put some distance between himself and the costumed man, only managing to get a better view of the stern face. Their eyes met and, finally, the Riddler spoke.

“Riddle me this, bird,” he repeated, earning himself a sharp, but very brief glare. Once Nightwing's expression softened somewhat, indicating that he will listen, the prisoner continued.

“It is the opposite of on,” he said in that weirdly melodic voice that he reserved for his puzzles only; the same kind of voice others use for poetry. “Beginning of where you are when you are not. First step of more when you had enough,” he allowed himself a small smile “it is the backwards relative of yan.”

Nightwing rolled his eyes behind the lenses. The man in trademark green had a way of making others play his inane games, and that was a natural talent to find leverage. Normally the vigilante would just knock a few teeth right out of him, or hang him upside-down from the top of Old Wayne Tower. But he could not; no matter how much he wanted to deny it, he needed Edward Nigma. And that was the leverage.

So, in other words, he had no choice but to solve the riddle.

When you had enough, you want no more. That bit was easy enough, but it was just one clue of four, and it had to add up to something that was a little less obvious. At least that was how this gig usually worked. So... where were you when you were not? Tricky, but not unsolvable, he reassured himself as he stared into those shining eyes, full of anticipation and childish amusement.

That was accurate, was it not? Edward Nigma's obsession – insanity, though he hated that word with a burning passion – was rooted in his childhood. Of course people joked about shrinks seeing every problem as related to some childhood trauma, but in this particular case it was true. The Batman, and in consequence all his birds, liked to know the backgrounds of those they fought against; it provided a priceless edge in confrontation. So they knew all there was in Arkham medical files, and perhaps more, but mostly about his abusive father that drove young Edward over the edge.

The Batman never said a word, but the others suspected that he somehow sympathized with the boy that would inevitably become the Riddler. He always felt strongly for children that were hurt, in any way, even when they were already adults – and even more when it had anything to do with their parents. For obvious reasons.

A voice kicked in the back of Nightwing's mind and forced him to focus on the riddle. It was further reinforced by that smug grin, victorious even though the battle was not over.

Yan. It meant _something_ , certainly, otherwise it would make it into the puzzle. Could a yan, whatever it was, have relatives? _Backwards_ relatives, for that matter?

Hold up. Backwards. Yan backwards is nay.

When you had enough you want no more.

When you are not, you are nowhere.

And the opposite of on...

“No,” he groaned. “You went through all that just to refuse me. I don't know if I'm more annoyed or more pissed.”

Nigma allowed himself a wide, amused grin, exposing his not entirely white teeth. “It was a simple riddle, really, and it didn't take you as long as I thought it would,” he admitted. “But I see no reason why I should assist you on this matter, however interesting it sounds.”

Nightwing stood, moving out of the other man's personal space and standing in front of him on the other side of the desk instead. He leaned forward slightly, supporting himself on both arms and managing to get no reaction at all. The pose was so typical he could hardly expect anyone to be intimidated. Fortunately, that was not his goal.

“Now _you_ riddle me _this_ ,” he said, stretching the words unnecessarily. “Why did you start playing games with the Bat in the first place?”

It was hardly a puzzle at all. With an answer so obvious the question felt almost rhetorical, but sufficed to raise of red eyebrows over those shining eyes.

“To bring him to an end, of course,” the Riddler replied in what he hoped was a casual, conversational tone, but there was a hint of strain in his voice.

Nightwing knew the inmate attempted to dodge the truth. They both knew what it was, but to make his point, he needed to hear it from the man. “And why do you want to beat him?”

Nigma heaved a theatrical, exasperated sigh. “To see him beaten. Dead. Why else?”

The vigilante rolled his eyes again and straightened up to his full height. While it might not have been too impressive, the dark costume and dim lighting did their job. “You know what I think, Eddie?” he asked, his gaze drilling through the man in green. “You might want him dead, but before that you want to humiliate him. Embarrass him in front of everyone. And that's because...”

He added the last bit in that strict, demanding tone typical for teachers who ask a question to test a child. That, however, was not enough to extract the truth from Edward Nigma, who just sat there in silence. Ironic, really, in a very sad way. Truth was what ultimately drove him to obsession, to a mania that forces him to always leave clues as to what is true even underneath layers of lies. And with all that, what he fears most if the truth about himself.

Nightwing shook his head and decided to utter the statement himself.

“Because you want to prove you're better than him,” he said.

The Riddler cocked his head, looking at him with eyes both perplexed and amused. But despite that, he was not smiling anymore. “And,” he said “pray tell what that has to do with anything.”

The masked man could not stop a smirk from creeping onto his features. “Elementary, my dear Eddie,” he said, earning an almost pained groan in response. “If you let the Joker keep Batman, it means he won. And you won't be able to beat the Bat yourself.”

Silence fell between them, but it was that sort of lack of sound that fills the air when someone wants to say something everyone will regret. Nigma's expression went surprisingly blank as for someone with such difficulty at keeping emotions in check.

Finally, he leaned forward a bit. “Well played, boy. Where do I sign up?”


	9. Love You Out Loud

_Wish I could love you out loud_

_But I'll just keep it to myself_

_Wish I could hear how it sounds_

_To be with you and no one else_

\- Love You Out Loud, **Meat Loaf**

 

 

Fool. Getting himself caught not only so easily, but also during a job. Now those accursed Waynes know someone is taking interest in them, and thanks to the Scarecrow's blunder, they know far too much about that someone.

Luckily enough, the grave was just a distraction. A not entirely red, but still a herring. Because, honestly, who could ever suspect the frightening Scarecrow to need the body of a long dead teen orphan? People believed he died in a bombing in Sarajevo; well, not everyone, the press was of course very interested in the passing of Bruce Wayne's ward. And even more in his rather sudden and certainly not quite explained fascination with young boys. Many speculated there was much more to that fascination than the will to provide the children with what he was deprived of. Suspicion grew when little Jason passed away so unexpectedly, making some wonder whether the master of the house himself was not responsible for removing the boy, and then grew even further when Bruce took care of little Timmy when his father slipped into a coma. The same boy he later adopted as a new Wayne.

Oh, how rewarding it would be to prove that was actually the case, that Bruce Wayne was in fact a sinner of the worst, most inhuman kind, that behind the face of a brainless philanthropist laid a child rapist. Perhaps, maybe, he could still be wronged into that, as a plan B, for example. If this fails.

And it looks like it might, he concluded as he forced his thoughts back onto the right track. Crane failed him, making him ponder whether this perhaps was the moment when the student surpassed his master. True, he did cause a distraction, but not good enough, and as a result forced his hand.

Worse, yet – he revealed to the Waynes that the one pulling the strings calls himself Hush. He liked it; it was short, simple, meaningful and quite creepy. But with them knowing Hush needed to make his move. He hurried, and made a mistake as well, and his enemies learned his real name, too. And possibly also his intentions.

Fortunately, they had no way of knowing everything. They could not guess who else worked for him, why, or how. So his plan could still succeed, at least as long as the others kept their mouths shut.

And they would for as long as they had what they wanted, Hush smirked to himself, twirling a data disk in hand.

 

Nightwing dropped into the cave very briefly and snatched a few pieces of equipment, promising he will explain himself later. He rushed out so fast, in fact, that his mind barely registered Tim and Alfred embracing in a corner. Or perhaps that did not come as much of a shock to him, since he knew of his little brother's infatuation with the butler.

Timothy, however, did not give that much thought. He returned from patrolling that night, what meant that his duties are done until next nightfall. And with Dick now out of the manor, doing only he knows what, the boy had other things on his mind.

The hardness in his mouth tasted of skin and something that he could not even name. It seemed a little sour, but not enough to irritate his taste buds, and perhaps a little bit sweet. It was weird, but knowing where the taste came from and what it really was made him moan, echoing the sounds his lover made. He listened to them, revelling in how much he could please the man with just his tongue.

And it was not indifferent to himself, either. His Robin tights felt tighter than their name suggested, and he was pretty sure he had no blood left anywhere else.

He pulled away, gasping for breath. But before he managed to take the shaft back into his mouth – oh, how he wanted to – Alfred knelt before him and kissed his lips gently. A thought flashed through the boy's mind about the man essentially tasting his own pre-come, but it vanished as soon as it appeared. The kiss was deep and passionate, almost enough to make him forget the trouble Bruce was in.

Almost.

But that was not the time to worry. It was a moment, however brief, just for themselves, that beautiful, tender, dark intimacy. And this one felt even darker, forbidden, almost, because of how great the age difference between them was. Neither of them cared, though, what was proven by a somewhat skinny, yet gentle hand rubbing the bulge in Timothy's tights.

The boy leaned against his lover, panting softly against his shoulder. Eventually his utility belt was loosened enough for the hand to slide into the tights and touch his bare skin. He shuddered as he felt the fingers trail his erection, bottom to top, then back down along a slightly different path. The sensation was teasing more than it was pleasurable, making him crave more. Robin began moving his hips slightly against the fingers, attempting to guide his demanding length into the palm of Alfred's hand. The man chuckled at his eagerness and complied, wrapping his fingers around the shaft and rubbing it rather slowly.

Timothy supported himself on his lover's shoulders to keep relatively upright, his rear a little above his legs in what looked like a slightly uncomfortable kneeling position. But it allowed the other thin hand to slide his tights down and reveal the skin underneath. The boy felt himself blush as the chilly cave air hit him, but it only made him want more, made him want to speed up and warm both of them up.

He ceased to move his hips in mid-air as both hands rubbed him in rhythm, front and back, and eventually his eyes fell closed on their own. But they opened again after but a moment as the boy felt a finger move to his anus, and touch teasingly around it.

“Alfred...” he breathed quietly against the shoulder, and there was a hint of a plea somewhere under that name. It was clear enough for the finger to be pushed past the sensitive orifice, forcing a low groan from the Boy Wonder. But that was a groan of pleasure more than of pain, and Tim kissed the butler's neck tenderly as a sign that it was good.

The finger was gentle, but Robin felt no pain as it moved inside him, brushing against his most sensitive spot time after time. He leaned against the elder man more closely, his knees trembling and giving in, unable to support his weight anymore.

After a long while of such torturously slow ministrations, the digit withdrew, making him groan once more, but this time in disappointment. He was given a warm smile that succeeded in calming him down somewhat, even though his heart was beating madly, and seemed to speed up even more as the tights were pulled off him; at one point Alfred lifted him a bit in order to slide them off him completely.

Their eyes met and both could not help but keep smiling. While they exchanged a soft, tender kiss, Timothy reached into the belt that was now on the cold ground and handed the butler a condom. He did wonder how it would feel without the latex separating them, and he did wish to give his lover as much pleasure as possible, but perhaps that was not the time.

“We'll do it a little differently,” Alfred said softly, not accepting the condom. Instead, he sat back on the stone floor, apparently not minding the chilly feeling under him. “How about you put it on and sit on me?”

Robin nodded in approval of that idea. Only days ago he was a virgin with only theoretical understanding of sex, even though he prided himself on having done rather detailed research, but now that he has tasted it he wanted to learn everything there was to learn and try everything there was to try. Carefully, and a little clumsily, he rolled the condom onto his lover's shaft and then moved to straddle him, their erections touching.

Alfred gently grabbed the boy's hips to help guide him onto his own hardness. With Timothy's eagerness, he needed to make sure it is done properly and does not hurt anymore than necessary. He stopped the Boy Wonder when he went over the tip, much to his disappointment, and then a bit back up, and down again. Giving Tim a reassuring smile, he moved his rear a little lower each time, revelling in the moans that grew louder and louder.

Eventually Robin slid all the way down over the shaft and the careful guidance ceased. He started moving on his own, with slight difficulty at first. But the jolts of pleasure that he felt with each bounce helped him relax and alleviate the initial pain; the two men were moaning not exactly in rhythm, their voices colliding as if trying to overwhelm one another.

At one point Timothy fell forward, supporting himself on his elbows only inches over Alfred's face, and inevitably their lips met in a clumsy, passionate kiss. The butler finally started moving against his younger lover, making him squirm in bliss. The heat of their bodies countered the usual chill of the cave, making them almost forget where they were.

But sooner or later, that blissful oblivion had to come to an end. Bent over the elder man like that, the boy was inevitably rubbing his own erection against the abdomen below him, and the shirt that was still covering it. They both knew that it would not end well for the clothing, but neither cared. They were too occupied with each other, and too far to bother with details.

Finally, the Boy Wonder let out a muffled, short whimper as the pleasure became too much, and erupted between the two of them, staining Alfred and himself. As his head span in orgasm, he barely registered that his tightening muscles forced his lover to spill into the condom, a small, gentle smile on his face.

They took a longer moment to catch breath and regain composure, locked in a secure, warm embrace. The troubles of the last several days hung above them like a storm cloud, trying to break their reverie.

Eventually, they had to succumb and get up from the floor that once again began to feel chilly. That, however, could not stop them from smiling, even in light of Bruce – master, son, father, mentor – being in a position they hardly could, or dared, imagine.

But right now their concern was the city. Come nightfall, Robin would need to prowl the streets again to keep Gotham from plunging into chaos while its Dark Knight defender was away. He would need to give his best, and then more.

And to make his father proud.

 

The Joker felt warm, cuddled up to him like that. The Batman's hands were still bound, but he could still wrap them around the other man, albeit somewhat clumsily. Despite the cuffs, the embrace appeared almost protective, and Bruce was no longer reluctant to admit sitting like that felt good.

Joker was the part of the picture that stood out. His white, almost sickly thin face was as serene as no one has ever seen it before. Possibly not even Harley Quinn, who boasted about being the closest to the clown. The last few days managed to prove that to be a lie – or at least misinformation – for there was one more person that got so intimate with the jester, and a man no less.

Bruce knew that the Joker loved him. He felt it in every kiss, in every embrace, and saw it in those eyes and that smile. There was no doubt. But the criminal, being who he was, expressed his feelings in a way quite contradictory to what was generally expected. Repeated humiliation and beating of Harley Quinn became one of his trademarks; everyone both admired and was astonished at her devotion to him, and no one was surprised when, once again, he left her somewhere, literally hanging, and did not come back for her.

And now he replaced her. Found himself a new lover, whom he treated just the same, and who wondered whether there was possibly a time, a life, when the Joker was different. A time where he was, maybe, kinder to those he cared for.

No one really knew who the clown prince of crime was before that fateful, tragic accident at the chemical plant. The accident the Bat himself was responsible for. But now, half-asleep in his prisoner's arms, the Joker looked so peaceful that one could almost remember he was not always a murderer.

Aside of being cheerful, he looked _happy_.

Bruce could not sleep even as the other slowly drifted away. He never really slept much to begin with. And the silence that fell over them could only be filled with the sound of his own thoughts.

Not long ago – days ago – he would have considered them insane, sickening. Yet, there he was, imagining what might have been – might _be_ – if the jester stays with him, his partner, his lover, _sane_.

Was that even possible at this point? Was there still a chance, even the slightest, to cure his mind? Numerous attempts at therapy at Arkham failed in a rather spectacular manner. A thought of healing through care and love flashed through his brain, and he barely held a laugh. It was so simple-minded, so cliché that it was a wonder anyone still believed in it. Sure, love was a powerful catalyst, but without psychiatric aid it would mean nothing.

Just look at how much Talia al Ghul changed when Batman was in love with her.

And what of the others? Those he bonded with over the years? What would they think of him if he dated an ex-convict, or worse, a convict? Talia was never really his woman; something sparked, even on his end, but she quickly blew any chance she had by using his feelings against him and to her own ends. Selina, well, she might have been closer to a girlfriend than the daughter of the Demon, but still not as official as some of those that Bruce Wayne was usually seen with. But then again, Catwoman was much less of a villain to begin with, both less than Talia, and less than the Joker.

The clown was single-handedly responsible for deaths of hundreds of innocents, possibly more than all the other Arkham inmates combined. The number of his victims slowly started becoming mere statistics. But that was not the point. The murders were not what hurt most.

He shot Batgirl. He forced poor Barbara to a life in a wheelchair when she was in her prime. But even that was not the worse.

He killed a Robin.

That was a crime no one in the Wayne family, surrogate or not, could ever forgive. Batman was certain that no matter what happened, he himself could never forgive nor forget the brutal, painful loss of young Jason Todd.

The others would never bear him loving the one who murdered his adopted son. They would be disappointed, the boys most likely angry. What if they turned away from him? Leave him in their fury?

It did not take the Scarecrow to figure out there was nothing he feared more.

No. They could not find out. They could not learn that what drove him to all this was sick love. Of course they would later ask about that goddamn recording, but he could always lie to them. He has before, and sometimes even for legitimate reasons. And while the only other possible explanation made him a lowlife no better than those he tried to eliminate, it was at the very least plausible.

Because, with all the Joker has done, and all the anger and bitterness Bruce harboured within himself, it was not entirely surprising that their story would lead to rape.

It did, in fact. The memory, though slowly fading into the back of the Crusader's mind, still stung. His story, if he decided to run with it, would simply swap the victim with the perpetrator.

Yes, his family would hate him if he claimed to be the rapist. But it seemed to be the lesser of two evils.

No. Something kicked him in the back of his mind, rather painfully, and repeated. No. That _was_ a way to solve this, yes, but it was not a _good_ way.

Think. Focus. Think. Find a different way. There had to be something that could be done to help, save, redeem the Joker without making his family hate him. A good way.

The Batman always found a good way.

 

Thanks to Nightwing pulling a few somewhat thin strings, the Riddler was moved out of Arkham Asylum, and he really could not complain. The penthouse they put him in proved not only roomy, but also very cosy. It felt obvious that whoever owned it was proverbially stinking rich, and considering that the place was situated on top of Wayne Enterprises, figuring who owned the it did not really take much effort. And with the latest revelations of Batman, Incorporated it also came as no surprise.

The Riddler did not quite believe that the cooperation between Bruce Wayne and the Dark Knight ended in business, but that was a riddle for another time.

For now, he had an obligation. Nightwing was certainly more clever than he appeared in those tights, having been able to talk him into this virtually for free. But then again, it seemed like a good deal. He sat in the lap of luxury, with leather sofas, silk sheets and a jacuzzi at his full disposal. The computer they gave him for the case was more advanced than any he has seen on the market, perhaps more advanced than his own, and obviously the kind the Bat himself used. He liked it. He really liked it.

But most importantly, no one could touch him. He was away from those lunatics from the asylum, both inmates and doctors, and should anyone come after him, Nightwing and the others would protect him. They needed him.

He was safe.

They did not even watch him as he worked, what suited Nigma just fine. He did not feel comfortable with eyes glued to him, but apparently the so-called capes considered their security good enough to hold him. They were right, he had to admit, hacking it would take some considerable effort. But he broke into the Oracle's communications before, so he could do it again.

But he did not want to. This was a golden opportunity. While he sat there, scouring for whatever they needed he could mine for otherwise unrelated data meanwhile. Bits and pieces of information he might need in the future, skeletons from the closets of his enemies...

And, perhaps, by some ironic blessing, the answer to the greatest riddle of all.

The man behind the cape and cowl.

All it needed was a bit of patience, a little stalling and a great deal of care. And Edward Nigma could easily do all three.


	10. Wait

_Easy now,_

_Hush, love, hush,_

_Don't distress yourself,_

_What's your rush?_

\- Wait, **Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street**  


 

 

Arkham Asylum felt almost welcoming. It was certainly an odd thing to say about a place of such renown, but then again, there were people whose lives revolved around it. And while Jeremiah Arkham, his doctors, nurses and security guards earned their living in those dark, grim walls, the inmates could hardly deny that the facility was a part of their own existence.

Some came in to be cured of illnesses such as split personalities, severe anxieties, post traumatic stress disorders, schizophrenia... And all that seemed somewhat meek, almost mundane when compared to some of those who occupied the most secure building that remained closed to any visitors – the intensive treatment facility.

Those were the ones the asylum got build for in the first place. Extreme cases of typical mental disabilities, or illnesses, of body and mind alike, that no one has encountered before. And those were also the inmates that, when released back into society, almost always, and inevitably, came back.

The only exception to that rule so far was Arnold Wesker, known in Gotham's underground as the shy and quiet Ventriloquist who always assisted a criminal mob boss in the form of a pupped called Scarface. His treatment, though somewhat traumatic in itself, eventually led to full recovery and despite the puppet still remaining, Scarface was no more.

Unfortunately, the same could not be said about the others in intensive care. All attempts at curing Harvey Dent's multiple personalities ended in the birth of another personality. Harley Quinn was well on her way to recovery once, but her mad love for the Joker, and her great fear of others perceiving her as a crook led to her return to the asylum. Edward Nigma was granted parole, and for a time everything went well, but his obsession with puzzles took the better of him and he was forced to return for further treatment.

They just kept coming back, time after time. They even had their usual cells waiting for them. So often, in fact, that to some the asylum became a hotel to rest in between crimes, and to others it became almost a home.

The Scarecrow certainly did not mind being there again. Not after his own apprentice, the boy he introduced to the world of nightmares... changed so much. When he has last seen him, the fire in his eyes did not burn so bright, and the bandages did not reveal scars and stitches when loosened up. Something happened to Tommy Elliott that made him more... intimidating, more determined.

Or perhaps Tommy Elliott did something that resulted in such a change.

Whatever the case, he treated his former mentor differently and the Scarecrow was no longer comfortable around him. Jobs were nice, true, Hush paid well and there was always use for extra money – but when he failed the last assignment, he could not be sure what Hush would do.

The asylum would ensure his safety. Tommy would not dare break in and risk capture – or possibly death – just to get back at him for something so minor. And to be perfectly honest, he was not so sure he wanted to continue working with Hush, not know, not ever. Their goals were no longer in line.

Jonathan Crane was not one to betray his associates. But he could leave clues, and if they instilled fear, all the better.

After all, the asylum staff did not think he was fond of lullabies.

 

The clock tower could serve as a fantastic vantage point if anyone ever got the idea of introducing such an unconventional tourist attraction. The view from its top was quite breathtaking, encompassing almost all of the city. Its greatest upside was that from all the way up there you could only see the majestic skyscrapers, office buildings and the more notable landmarks such as Wayne Tower, the Cyrus Pinkney museum, or the rather mystical looking Wonder Tower. From high up there, one could not see the gutters, the slums, the shady underground and the sweepings of the street that inhabit it.

So far no one has, however, gotten the idea of installing a tourist trap on the tower, and it was fortunate. The building was so old that everyone took it for granted and no one paid it much attention. It was there, always has been, what made the perfect location for a hideout.

Or a base of operations.

Ever since the Joker knocked on her door and shot her into disability, Barbara Gordon found a way to aid the cause of the Batman without the need to walk. The Dark Knight had many warriors in the field, and not just in Gotham. The Justice League covered the entire globe, and indeed, many more planets through the inclusion of a Green Lantern. Batman had a network of operatives from spies and snitches among the homeless through mechanics and designers to friends in high places.

But what he really lacked was a centre.

The whole web Bruce Wayne weaved and built around himself needed a central node, a brain could coordinate and oversee it at times when the Caped Crusader could not. Who could focus on data – on obtaining it, on processing it, on transmitting it.

Batman needed an Oracle that would be there for him when he needed information, when he needed reinforcements... Of course he did not know he needed her until Barbara figuratively jumped in and assumed the role. And for extra safety, her base of operations was far from the batcave, both horizontally and vertically.

She put her mug of tea down and looked up at the handsome, masked face. “This is a bad idea,” she announced flatly.

“As if I didn't know that,” Nightwing replied from her he was sitting on her desk. “But it's not like we have a choice.”

Barbara glanced at one of the screens with rows and rows of data currently being processed. Almost all computing power at her disposal was devoted to scouring every bit of data network she could think of in search of even the faintest shadow of the tape that incriminated Batman. But it was not only seeking a needle in a haystack, it also had to go slowly or she might risk unwanted attention.

“You're right,” she admitted. “But it's still a bad idea.”

Dick shrugged his shoulders slightly, but there was a barely visible strain to that motion. He clearly did not like the idea, even if he was the one who came up with it in the first place.

“The Riddler knows his way around the criminal networks,” he said. “He might be able to reach certain places faster than you. … Not that I'm doubting your abilities,” he added quickly, seeing her rather heavy gaze.

The girl nodded. He was right, of course. Edward Nigma knew things that they will need time to learn.

Barbara took her mug again and sipped her tea slowly. “He's a huge security risk,” she said after a moment.

Nightwing pulled himself off the table and onto his feet. “Yeah,” he confirmed, moving to her and circling her wheelchair on his way towards one of the screens. “He's hacked parts of our systems before. But again, I don't think we have a choice.”

Oracle's radiant eyes followed him. “What if we're chasing a red herring?” she finally asked, her expression so blank that it was clear she was not sure what to believe, but considered that a very valid option.

Dick stared at the data streaming through the screen. “I know,” he said. “I said it myself, right? We can't even be sure the tape exists. Our only source on this is the _Joker_.” The last word – the name – was spoken in a tone that audibly leaked venom, only reinforcing the well-known fact that Richard Grayson hated the jester with all that he was.

Everyone in the family, biological, surrogate or simply befriended, hated the Joker. For Barbara and James Gordon and the one bad day he forced upon them, and for the loss of Batgirl that followed. For Jason Todd and Robin.

“It's not like we can trust his word,” Oracle said after a long moment of nearly suffocating silence, stating the obvious.

Nightwing turned to her once more and their eyes met. “But we can't act on a hunch,” he said. “Too much is at stake.”

The girl gave him a slow, almost solemn nod, as if silently promising she will continue, whatever it takes. “Here's hoping the Riddler can at least find us some anchor point,” she said, allowing herself a small frown a moment after. “Because so far we don't even know where to really start.”

She could see Nightwing's shoulders shrug slightly in a silent, heavy sigh. “And we're stretched so thin I was forced to ask a felon for aid,” he shook his head, the black strands of hair moving slightly over his forehead. The situation was uncomfortable, but not unprecedented. Few realized it, but this was not the first time the Gotham capes worked with someone previously or even currently residing in either the Asylum or Blackgate Penitentiary. There was, most notably, Bane with his attempt at shutting down the Lazarus Pits. And speaking of Lazarus Pits, how many times was Batman forced to ally himself with the great Ra's al Ghul?

Dick continued: “What with that alleged old friend of Bruce's impersonating him...”

As he spoke, the words seemed to suspend themselves between the two and just hung in mid-air. Something about them seemed razor sharp as they cut both the air and the tongue that uttered them.

Then, Barbara shoved the vigilante away from the screen and started typing something eagerly. Her expression turned stern, typical for when she worked.

The man blinked beneath his domino mask. “Barb? What are you doing?”

“Contacting the Riddler,” she replied, not turning away from her computer.

“Oh,” he said with as much eloquence as he could muster. “Got an idea concerning this Thomas Elliott, I gather?'

Of course he knew what idea she got. He reached the exact same hypothesis at roughly the same time, but he felt the need to speak of it out loud. It often helped form thoughts, and allowed for exchange of ideas. That was one of the reasons he kept talking so much during his time as Robin, and one of the reasons Batman kept taking him along.

“It should have been obvious,” Oracle said, a hint of anger in her tone. Question was whom the anger was directed at. “How could we have missed it?”

Nightwing cocked his head. “You mean the bit where Bruce goes missing and an imposter shows up to take his place?”

“That exactly,” she said so dryly and in a voice so cold that they could almost see the air crystallize before her. They were idiots not to have considered this before. They let their distress, their worry for him and fear of what he has done get the better of them.

They let their feelings get in the way of reasons. If Bruce was there to see it, they would never hear the end of it.

“They're working together,” Dick said, but his tone was not firm. Something in it suggested the words might have been meant to form a question.

“We can't rule that out,” Barbara replied, glancing at him briefly over her shoulder. “But it's just as likely as Elliott jumping in when he saw a window of opportunity.”

He nodded. There was a number of other possibilities, too, of course. This was merely the most obvious one.

And Bruce Wayne did not believe in coincidences.

As Dick left the majestic clock tower, the chilly evening air helped clear his head. Swinging from roof to roof, with only a line to hold him and no net below, he felt very much like back in the old, careless days in the circus. Bliss of a childhood with his parents.

He missed them with his whole heart, but no grief could ever bring them back. And he was no longer afraid to admit that Bruce meant much more to him than they did.

But while the Bat had a new family that loved him so dearly, he did not seem to have the same luck with friends.

First Harvey Dent's mental breakdown and complete submission to his other, dark personality. His inner struggle with himself was as tragic as it was dangerous. Then there was Jezebel Jet, whom he truly fell in love with and trusted enough to reveal his greatest secret to. Jezebel Jet, who turned out to only be there so that she could destroy him, and through that hurt him more than even Talia did.

And now, Thomas Elliott. A childhood friend that Bruce never mentioned to any of his Robins, or to Batgirl, but whom the family butler recognized in a heartbeat. It seemed that he had much more in common with the master of the Wayne family than either of them realized. Tommy's father was a doctor, just like Bruce's father, and the Elliotts were both deceased, having orphaned their son at a young age.

But it was true – it _seemed_ they had much in common, but there was much more setting them apart.

And once one set eyes on Tommy Elliott's new face, all became clear.

 

The Joker's smirk should have ceased to feel menacing days ago, and yet, even with all the mad love beneath it, it still had that peculiar effect. The Batman was not easily intimidated; in fact, the only one so far to have managed that was Bane, with his brilliant, careful planning and eventually with a feat none other achieved – breaking the Dark Knight's back.

But the Joker? He could do things no one even considered an option. A wise man once said that if you need to do something impossible, simply find someone who does not know that it is impossible, simply find someone who does not know that it is impossible. And the clown prince of crime fit that description better than anyone, and each of his smiles could only mean trouble.

Because you never knew why he was smiling. You never knew what was coming next.

Bruce looked up from where he lay, having been woken from his restless sleep by the sound of footsteps and a broad, sickly white smirk above his face. He flinched away on instinct, but calmed down somewhat once his abruptly woken brain caught up.

“Morning, sunshine!” the Joker chirped in a tone so sweet it leaked syrup. “Though bats aren't exactly morning mammals. Which is obvious, just look at you! Poster child for insomnia!”

The prisoner pulled up a little slowly, rubbing his eyes. Truth was he got more sleep in this old funhouse than usually at the manor, but he could not rest. His usual nightmares about Joe Chill, Crime Alley and Jason Todd began intertwining with images of what transpired in that haunted house, with that humiliation and vain hope.

Vain?

“I'd probably look less sleep deprived if you didn't shriek in my ear,” he said, straightening up into a sitting position from the hard pillows. As per usual, his rather basic meal was already waiting for him on a plate, but he glanced at it very briefly. The words he spoke were harsh, but the tone of his voice was not. Angering the clown when he had such leverage seemed like a very foolish thing to do.

“Maybe,” the jester cocked his head, his grin widening. “Couldn't help myself, you're just so cute when you sleep, Batsy. And when you snore.”

Bruce allowed himself a frown underneath the cowl – which, slowly, began to require some cleaning – and watched the criminal set himself on the pillows. “If you liked watching me sleep, maybe you should have let me.”

The white chin rose and fell in a series of rapid nods. “What, you want a lullaby? No problem, baby bat!”

Revelling in his captive's exasperated groan, he leaned closer, almost pressing his artificially broadened lips to that pointy ear. The Batman remained still, but could hardly hold a shiver as that high-pitched, raspy voice began singing the most chilly, the creepiest lullaby imaginable.

“ _Hush, little baby, don't say a word..._ ”

The words sounded so harsh, so dark that the Batman could not hold a shiver. And that visible reaction only fuelled the criminal's sudden and sick desire to incite fear in his victim.

“ _Daddy's gonna buy you a gun and lead..._ ”

Of course he would change the lyrics. For some reason the Knight expected him to include a crowbar in there; he expected the clown to reference his greatest triumph over the Caped Crusader, his greatest achievement. In fact, a crowbar became a pretty popular thing to reference in the underworld, being the instrument of the vigilante's breakdown.

But now that he thought about it, a gun made perhaps even more sense. A gun started everything, did it not? It created the Batman. Perhaps the crowbar was one one the things that shaped him, but what spawned him was the spark that fuels a bullet.

“ _And if that gun and lead taste blood_...”

_Pearls drop into a sewer grate_ , Bruce thought, the image flashing through his mind, vivid as if it happened only yesterday. Just like he saw it every other night in his bad dreams, or each time he got careless around the Scarecrow.

The Joker suddenly grabbed him by the cowl and jerked his head roughly to face him. The Bat could not stop his lips from curling down into a sneer, but that was all that he did. Reacting in any other way risked betraying how disturbed he was by the lullaby.

“ _Daddy's gonna remove your little bat head._ ”

Of course he would change as much as he could, including the rhyme style. It was actually a wonder that Batman had enough self-control to consider such details. His detective instincts seemed stronger than even the chills and fear of uncertainty the clown incited in him. It was a good thing, being able to overcome emotions with reason, at least at times like this.

Sometimes, however, it results in rather painful situations in the family. He just hoped that Alfred and the boys really did understand.

The sickly white hand let go of him, and he inched away from the smirking lips, pretending it was on instinct. It took a moment of unnerving silence before the Bat found the courage to say what was on his mind. And courage was the right word; he risked twice, once because the Joker might not like it and punish him for it – how, he tried not to imagine – and the second time because if all went well with the previous circumstance, his family might hate him.

But perhaps insanity was contagious after all.

“It doesn't have to be like this,” he hazarded. “If you want me, you don't have to keep me here by force.”

The jester erupted into shrieking laughter. “And how do you imagine that, Batsy?!” he asked, wiping tears out of his eyes. But his captive was not entirely certain whether they resulted from the very apparent joy. “I let you and what? You ask me out for dinner, maybe a movie?” he stood and turned to the other man, his insane grin softening into an almost sad smile. “We spend a memorable night in a hotel, then each of us goes to work, and you invite me over so you can introduce me to your family?”

Bruce watched him as blankly as only he could, not wanting the clown to know he felt pretty ashamed about not having thought this through. But he could not stop a visible flinch at what followed.

“Oh, sorry,” the Joker growled, baring his almost inhumanly white teeth. “That's what _normal_ people do,” he said, accenting the word with exaggerated disgust. “Not like I can meet my future bride's parents or anything!”

The Batman looked down, trying to avoid his gaze. The words cut like the sharpest knife, and the criminal knew that more than well. There was no other reason for him to say so, and it was all but funny.

“No,” he confirmed somewhat dryly. “We're not normal. But you don't have to be alone.”

The glare that met him in response was sharp and drilling. “I'm not alone.”

The Knight barely held the triumphant smirk that demanded to make itself apparent.

“And yet you dragged me here.”

This time, the response was more than predictable. As was expected, the Joker slapped him across the face as hard as he could; so hard, in fact, that he himself winced in pain and ended up holding his aching palm. His eyes shone with growing fury, so Bruce did the only thing he could think of to alleviate the situation. He certainly did not need any sort of punishment – not the tape being released to the public, not another rape.

He hung his head. Be obedient. Be a good pet.

“Forgive me,” he said, not looking up. “I did not mean to overstep.”

The words did not seem to have much of an effect on the clown, but his angrily narrowed eyes did soften into a deep frown nonetheless. Still rubbing his aching hand, the jester eyed him in his subservient pose. Then, he knelt and grabbed Batman's chin surprisingly gently and looked him in the lenses.

“You did overstep,” he said sharply, yet calmly. “I'm going to have to shut you up, you little bat.”

What followed was not what the prisoner thought would happen. Dry but soft lips pressed against his in a forceful, but not rough kiss. A tongue pushed itself into his mouth and teased the muscle inside, brushing against the teeth as well. The man found himself reciprocating, trying to lick against the invading tongue, but not attempting to dominate the clown. He leaned back onto the pillows as the Joker pushed him down, moving over him with obvious intentions.

“Don't you talk now, baby bat,” the jester breathed in a raspy whisper. “Hush.”


	11. Last Kiss Goodbye

_I know you will be waiting_

_Sleeping in your pelt_

_If I couldn't have you baby_

_No one ever will_

_'cause our love can't be shared_

(Last Kiss Goodbye - **Lordi** )

 

The one they called Oracle was not easy to work with, but she certainly knew what she was doing. Her security was top-notch, making it somewhat difficult for him to figure out whom he was talking to, and she trained her mind outstandingly well. She not only understood everything he told her, she seemed able to anticipate his next thought based on their current conversations. All in all, whoever she was, she was brilliant, probably as brilliant as Edward Nigma found himself to be. And in other circumstances, he would have found that almost attractive.

But even with all her intellect, she made mistakes. The Riddler was able to slowly, bit by bit, explore certain parts of the network they let him into, seemingly without the Oracle noticing.

And he found things. Being able to cover up his private endeavours with the search for Joker's tape, he dug up enough clues, hints, bits and pieces to reach rather definite conclusions. The answer to the greatest riddle of his life, within his grasp. On the tips of his fingers.

Bruce Wayne. It has to be. There is no other common denominator. The wealth necessary to pull the vigilante gig off, few had this much disposable income. Batman, Incorporated certainly provided an explanation, but when matched up against the rest of the evidence, well... It accounted for a very elaborate cover. Take the Robins, for instance. Somehow, when you thought about it, they seemed to correspond to... new “additions” to the Wayne family. Somehow, when Batman was seen without the aid of his Boy Wonder – suddenly and out of the blue – there was a funeral for Bruce's adopted son, Jason Todd. A new sidekick appears, and not much later the billionaire takes in a new child.

More than curious.

And then there was this whole new business with the Joker. According to Oracle, the man who appeared when the Batman disappeared was an imposter... so where was the real Bruce Wayne?

Edward Nigma did not believe in coincidences.

In order to retrieve all that, however, he needed to pass on the information the capes expected him to obtain. That likely meant they would be sending him back to his cell in Arkham, but that was alright. He had the means of getting out virtually instantly, and a lot of very, very interesting things to make use of.

Jason Todd, eh?

 

Tim rarely slept naked. In fact, he rarely slept all through a night, especially lately, so these several hours of blissful rest were truly a blessing. Of course, with the city being what it is, and his duty being its protection, he was abruptly and roughly woken well past noon.

He pulled the covers over his face to shield himself from the light that Alfred let in without a warning. He groaned in protest as he was forcefully uncovered again; the bed felt far too comfortable and welcoming right now.

“Now, now, Master Tim,” the butler said. “Remember about the meeting you must attend in three hours.”

The boy groaned again. Of course he was the one who had to go, now that they have exposed Elliott as an imposter and had no one to stand in as Bruce Wayne. He made a messy mental note to educate Dick on running a business.

“Fine,” he mumbled, slowly pulling up from the divinely soft pillow.

Alfred smiled. “I would say you're not much of a morning person,” he ruffled the boy's unfeathered hair rather playfully “if it wasn't past noon.”

Tim yawned. “You try to spend the night kicking asses...”

A hearty chuckle answered him as the elder man sat down on the bed. “Oh, I don't kick asses,” he said, moving a hand over the other's knee and thigh slowly. “I prefer to do something else with them.”

The butler kissed his lover's lips softly and found him responding more eagerly than he got up. “Let me wake you up...” he whispered, wrapping an arm around the boy's waist and slowly trailing up his thigh with his other hand, to his groin. The legs parted invitingly, letting him touch the member so gently it was more teasing than pleasurable.

The shaft grew between the skilled fingers, and Tim was soon moaning and assaulting the elder's neck with hungry kisses. Soon, Alfred's clothes found their way to the floor, one by one, and the boy's lips moved from the neck to the thin chest. He was pushed away after but a moment, and his disappointed groan met a reassuring smile as the butler slid off the bed and onto his knees.

His lips were soft and tongue skilled, making the boy fall onto his back with a blissful moan. He delighted in that gentle sensation, in feeling so hot and wet around almost all of himself. Briefly he wondered if that is what a woman feels like, but quickly dismissed the thought. He did not want a woman. He wanted Alfred.

He moved a slightly shivering hand over the balding head, encouraging his lover to give him even more. The butler forced himself to go all the way down over the erection, earning a surprised gasp, but pulled away equally quickly.

Before the boy managed to ask where he learned to do that, he was silenced by another passionate kiss on the lips. His hand travelled to the elder man's crotch almost on its own, brushing against the bulge in his pants, and then hastily moved back up to unbuckle his belt.

Alfred's erection sprang free, making Tim chuckle at his lover's eagerness. “I love you,” he said, spreading his legs once more.

The butler moved over him, their shafts touching briefly and their lips met. “Will you be alright without a condom?” he asked softly.

“Um...” the other hesitated. “There isn't much of a difference for me, right?”

“Cleanup, mostly,” Alfred said.

“I'll be okay,” Tim smiled warmly, nodding to further reassure the man. “Please do it...”

He did not need to ask twice. He moaned lowly, feeling himself stretched by the invading, throbbing hardness. It really did not feel much different for him, but the soft, warm panting against his neck showed how much Alfred enjoyed it without the condom separating them. He smiled, closing his eyes and focusing on the soft breath, the warmth of another's body and the intense sensation against his prostate.

His moans grew louder as the butler's thrusts became faster, making him lose himself in the pleasure. Alfred smiled down at him and took his hand, intertwining his fingers with Timothy's. Smiling back, the boy started eagerly rubbing himself to try and keep up with the other man's orgasm.

He came mere moments before his lover, so overwhelmed by the rush of pleasure that he did not feel the warm seed spill inside him. He laid back, squeezing the hand that was holding his.

“I love you too, Timothy,” Alfred kissed his forehead.

The boy chuckled. “Now I feel even more lazy than before.”

“Now, now,” a small grin answered him. “You need to take a shower before the meeting, young master. I shall prepare you some breakfast.”

Tim kissed him softly. “Thanks...”

“You're most welcome, my sweet.”

 

The sun has not gone down yet, and would not for the next two or three hours, but there was no more time to waste. The criminals in Gotham had a peculiar inclination to operate after nightfall, certainly because most of the city was asleep and a ripe target, but also because the smaller fries of the underworld created enough commotion to cover for bigger heists.

Even though Nightwing, like the other local capes, was not one to strike in daytime, he needed to make an exception. He kept to the highest rooftops whenever he could and did not linger in one spot too long, decreasing the chances of anyone spotting him for more than an instant. The presence of vigilantes in Gotham has long ceased to be a secret, so anyone noticing him through an office window would at least do no harm.

He just hoped that the Riddler really kept his word.

And that Hush was where they expected him to be.

 

A part of Timothy wondered why these people were known as ta board of directors when they should have been called bored. Business itself had the potential to be quite fascinating at times, and more than slightly satisfying with all its challenges, but sadly, Wayne Enterprises top management was a challenge in itself without the satisfaction factor. Lucius Fox was a good man, and he even had a sense of humour, but the same could not be said about the others.

They sat along and around that ridiculously long table, looking as serious as people could; possibly even more serious than Batman, what seemed impossible. Yet, he did smile, rarely, but he did. The board of directors much have reached some sort of high score in seriousness.

Tim knew they did not appreciate him being there. He was a minor, barely sixteen, with no real decision making power. He was there as a representative of the family, to voice opinions on their behalf, but if he ever had a need to force some course of action, he would be unable to unless someone such as Lucius Fox listened to him. He really, really wish Dick would have a better understanding of business, so that he could replace him there as a proper adult.

It was almost funny, though. Despite having a better reputation in the company than Bruce for not acting like a complete moron, he still did not feel welcome on top. Perhaps it had something to do with being adopted as well. Many people envied him that; envied the fact that he became so stinking rich in a matter of days, without the effort they needed to put into their own success. On one hand, he understood. Everyone would like to have so much for so little. But on the other, he did not understand.

He did not ask his parents to die on him.

He could feel the heavy stares drilling through him, and if he was not trained to resist such things, he would have shuddered. This, too, was almost funny. Having faced almost unimaginable hardships and horrors at the hands of the Joker, Ra's al Ghul, Deadshot, Clayface and innumerable other supervillains, he still could hardly get his bearings around a bunch of bureaucrats.

“I stand by what I said,” he said, suppressing an exasperated sigh. “Park Row is one of the most neglected sections of the city. If we're to improve anyone's lives in Gotham, that's where we should start.”

A woman narrowed her eyes so slightly it was almost unnoticeable, and he picked it up only thanks to his detective practice. “And it certainly has nothing to do with family history, does it, Mister Wayne?”

She spoke calmly, but the words cut like the sharpest knife. Timothy felt an overwhelming urge to hit her for that remark, and needed to grind his teeth against each other to resist the inclination to launch himself at her over the ridiculously long table.

Of course that was part of the reason. Prior to his disappearance, Bruce expressed quite firmly that he wants the place to be rebuilt as one of the first. He has finally come to terms with the fact that he was worshipping the place where his parents died, and it was a rather foolish thing to do. Crime Alley was not sacred. And it needed help.

Problem was that very few, if any, outside the immediate family would perceive this course of action for what it was – a breakaway from the past, a milestone in Bruce Wayne's life and a reforging of Batman's oath. No, most would think it would be an attempt at running away from old scars, or perhaps a publicity stunt. Billionaire playboy desecrates sight of parent's death. What a nauseating headline.

“That is beside the point,” Tim said out loud in an attempt to disrupt that depressing train of thought. “My father wants Park Row rebuilt by the foundation, but that doesn't mean other such areas will not be taken into consideration.”

“Consideration,” an elderly, balding man said. Tim vaguely recognized him as head of public relations. Amazingly unphotogenic for that seat. “That doesn't mean the final decision will be yes.”

The boy opened his mouth to reply to that, part of him wondering whether he can keep himself and his words in check, but did not get the chance. Before any sound escaped his lips, eyes shifted away from him to something behind his back. Not sure he liked it, or the sound of the door sliding open, he turned to check what was suddenly so interesting.

And saw Bruce Wayne.

“I second what my son said,” he confirmed, walking towards the table. Timothy barely stopped himself from rising from his seat as the man halted next to him. “If we're to rebuild the city, we have to start something. Bickering won't get us started, and Park Row is a good a place to pick, very... symbolic, don't you think?”

There was a longer pause, as if the board realized something was not entirely right. The spoiled Wayne heir came and went whenever he wanted, so him busting in like that was nothing out of the ordinary. But he hardly spoke of Crime Alley... and never seemed to have referred to it by his original name. And even if he did, how could he suddenly be so... light-hearted about it?

Timothy knew and realized that. He knew very well what was not in order and why, but fortunately the other people there were not as well acquainted with his adoptive father. They felt something was off, but could not pinpoint it exactly. And no one said a word.

Before the boy managed to break the silence, a strong hand was placed on his shoulder.

“If you excuse us for a moment,” Bruce said, glancing around the assembly “my son and I need to discuss something briefly.”

And with that, not waiting for anyone's approval, he pulled the boy up from his chair and led him to the door rather forcefully, but not hard enough to let anyone else notice. However, when he peeked behind himself, Tim met the slightly concerned gaze of Lucius Fox.

He walked reluctantly, but he had to play along. The stakeholders should not find out that someone was impersonating the main shareholder. There was no reason for panic, or months – years? - of suspicion that would inevitably follow. He would have to deal with this issue quietly, and alone.

Elliott was not a fool. He has made a mistake before with Alfred, but he seemed to have learned since then. Crowded building, witnesses, security cameras – all preventing Timothy from defending himself, or at least making it very difficult for the man. He could even have trouble activating his comm for others to eavesdrop, or beacon to call for backup. He was not only on his own, but with limited options.

Then again, if this Hush intended to hurt him, he would need to do it discreetly to avoid rousing suspicion. And if circumstances allow him to be discreet, they will allow so for Tim as well.

Perhaps he could still get out.

The side corridor he was led through slowly started to look promising, too. Looking around in an almost cliché suspicious manner, and noticing no one was there, Elliot shoved the boy a bit more forcefully into a technical passage – one of those with bare, grey walls, constant machine noise and so much humidity the air was tangible.

But Timothy could not muse about it too long. The moment he began regaining balance, he felt a hard, precise blow to the back of his head and the world span.

 

The Joker seemed to be in a very foul mood. What caused it was almost irrelevant; it could have been anything from a foiled heist through spilled acid to a flower delivered in a wrong colour. The Batman was of course kept out of the loop, but even without his best friend's superhearing, he could catch individual words yelled out above the basement he was in. And what he heard could, under certain conditions, point to a security breach.

Could they have found the tape?

If so, that was brilliant news. He could get out and return to being the Bat. To being his real self.

But it was also really bad news. Not only would he lose his lover – because convincing the Joker to come with him and try therapy was a fool's errand at best – he would be forced to confront his family and either lie to their faces, or tell them the disgusting truth.

And this could also mean that the jester will publish the recording. Or simply kill him.

Or not so simply kill him. With him, you never know.

The sight of the white face twisted in a furious sneer was hardly welcome as the clown almost stormed his way towards his captive. He was almost visibly steaming and Bruce knew that for him it could only mean trouble. He sat up on the pillows, straightening up to look a bit more confident, though in truth what he wanted most at the time was to be elsewhere.

A thin hand slapped him across the face, but this time its owner appeared so furious he did not even notice that the blow hurt him as well. Bruce obediently looked away, not under the force of the strike, but not to anger his master any further.

“You knew they'd sniff around,” the Joker groaned, slapping the other cheek. “You knew they'd try, and guess what?”

The Batman did not dare ask what. He expected to hear his shame revealed, sent out into the world; of his sick love, his perversion exposed. It would ruin him. It would imply all sorts of things from corruption to cooperation, mental illnesses. No one would ever treat the Dark Knight, or Batman, Incorporated, or his children seriously.

He could feel his cheeks heat up with incoming tears. He ruined Nightwing. Robin. Oracle. Perhaps even Jim Gordon.

A white hand clasped around his throat and gripped tightly. “I do _not_ like dogs sniffing around,” the Joker growled. “And I don't like people who breed sniffing dogs!”

Bruce coughed and grabbed the thin wrist as it threatened to completely cut off his oxygen supply, but fortunately for him, he was released a moment after. Instead, the clown simply yanked his prisoner's pants down with one swift move. Before he knew it, the Bat was rolled around and pressed into the uncomfortable pillows, but he did not resist at all.

A groan escaped his lips as a hardness was forced into him, and a part of him wondered just how much of the Joker's arousal was induced by his pet, and how much by the sheet act of hurting someone. There was pain, sharp and rather intense, but nowhere near as bad as it used to be. The rather frequent sessions of penetration ensured he was partly prepared beforehand, and the hurt lessened very soon.

He still felt quite uncomfortable, in contrast to the loud, wanton panting against his neck. Bony fingers dug into his sides right above his hips and the moved became faster, stroking against the sensitive spot inside him. He did not bother holding moans each time his prostate was touched, but at the same time he knew it would probably not be enough to make him come.

That was never the focus, though, of what he was reminded by a sudden, hard bite into his shoulder where the cowl did not protect him. He could not be sure whether that drew blood, but that was irrelevant as well. The jester was mad, furious, and saw this as a fit way to vent his anger. Through means simply and readily available – another rape.

Whilst it was nowhere near as disturbing and traumatic as the first one, it certainly caused Bruce discomfort. The Bat was once again reduced to nothing more than a toy, a pleasure slave, slave to none other than his nemesis.

The quiet groans behind him grew more ecstatic, and finally the clown let out a much louder, almost feral moan as he emptied into the other man. However, he did not pull away, pressing himself against the Crusader's back and wrapped his arms around the broad, scarred chest.

“You're a very bad boy, Brucie,” he sighed against the muscled neck. “A very bad boy. I should hurt you. Make you cry and beg.”

The Bat did not dare move an inch as the Joker pulled out of him and redressed. The moment things like that were said out loud it always became clear that there would be some other punishment instead, something much more severe, more painful.

“But I don't think you told them to go interfering with our perfect relationship, right, Batsy?” the clown asked, his voice dangerously sweet. He turned to leave, and the prisoner finally dared to look at him, watching his back as he made his way to the stairs and up. “Those meddling kids did it on their own, didn't they? And they don't even have a dog!”

The next step took him into the shadows of the unlit stairwell, and with the only light source behind him, he looked sinister and even more insane than usual. The faint light cast shades onto him that contrasted with his unnaturally white skin. A grin crept onto his face, stretching the blood-red lips in a nasty, unpleasant way.

“I'm not letting you go, Batsy,” he said, his voice both soft and full of sinister, venomous anger at the same time. “I'm keeping you here, all to myself. And no one else. The bad boys of yours, they want to take you from me, and I won't let them. They need to be punished,” he let his lips curl into a very nasty smirk. “They will pay.”


	12. Song of Myself - Black Diamond

_But I yearn for something more_ **|** _A midnight flight into Covington Woods_

_I know I can't stay by your side forever_ **|** _A princess and a panther by my side_

_But I know I won't forget your beauty_ **|** _These are territories I live for_

_My black diamond_ **|** _I'd still give my everything to love you more_

\- Black Diamond, **Stratovarius | -** Song of Myself, **Nightwish**

 

 

Tim did not have enough time to properly react, even after his spinning head caught up with what was happening. All he knew was that something cold, gleaming and sharp was pressed against his throat and he could feel the edge slowly bury itself into the skin of his neck.

For a split second his brain decided to play a very ugly trick on him and wondered, what if he is wrong? What if the man holding the blade is not an imposter?

What if Bruce Wayne lost his mind?

As stubborn as he was, Timothy refused to even humour that possibility, despite everything the Bat himself taught him about investigations. That, however, seemed a secondary matter in comparison to the more immediate issue of having a knife at his throat. Normally he would fight back and get the upper hand – mostly due to the element of surprise – but not this time. With the blade this close to his larynx, one false move could cost him his life in a gruesome, bloody mess.

He was not quite ready to risk that.

He was, however, willing to try Nightwing's forte.

"So," he tried, speaking with moving his lips as little as possible to avoid scratching against the knife. “How do you plan on explaining the sudden disappearance of Bruce Wayne's son?”

“I will think of something,” Elliott growled, and Tim could feel the burning sensation of his skin being pierced. “How about one of those favourite capes of yours going rabid and murdering my beloved son in front of my very eyes?”

That was certainly a risky version, the boy concluded, but not an unbelievable one. Despite the reach and influence of the Justice League, many still did not trust them; mostly because they concealed themselves from the public using masks, in one form or another, and the fact that they included alien beings that no one knew about beforehand. A Kryptonian, whom some went as far as dubbing a sun god; a Martian, a shapeshifter, so you never really knew if the person next to you really is whom they claim to be.

Many were also afraid of the League's power. For if they turned against the people they claim to serve, how does one resist an indestructible sun god?

And who was to guarantee they will _not_ turn against mankind?

That trail of thought was interrupted suddenly and quite rudely, the same way Elliott's concentration was. A deep, melodic voice called from somewhere to his left, near the door to the cold passage.

“Pick on someone your own size!”

On instinct, Hush turned his head to check who discovered him, possibly afraid that someone from the company would learn the truth. Relief was clear in his eyes when he beheld the messy hair, the smug little grin and the distinct blue emblem of Nightwing.

Using that moment of involuntary distraction, Timothy dared grab the man's arm and pry the blade away from himself. The muscles were tense, but they gave in; as soon as the knife inched away from flesh, the boy delivered a swift and well practised kick. It was aimed at the larger man's abdomen, and had enough force to shove him away, yet not enough to cause much damage.

Nightwing launched himself at Elliott with a swift kick, but the man regained enough balance to grab the ankle heading for his face and swing its owner sideways. Dick propelled himself off the wall that he hit, but not without a quiet growl of pain.

Meanwhile Tim attempted to grab Hush's arm in which he held the knife by the wrist while the man was looking away, but apparently it was not far away enough. Noticing the boy, he sliced rather blindly, making him flinch away as the skin on his forearm was cut open. It appeared to be nothing more than a flesh wound, yet blood seeped out of it slowly over the arm, dangerously close to the artery. And the searing pain did little to help.

Tim made the obvious mistake of relying on Wayne Enterprises hidden stashes, from which he was not effectively cut off. Stupid, reckless, and as a result also very, very naked. He could fight without his gear, but he was at a significant disadvantage.

Fortunately, Nightwing was not.

Using the distraction Tim's injury provided, he regained composure and swung at the impostor with his faithful escrima sticks. One of them was successfully blocked with the knife, now red with his brother's blood, but the other, sent from the opposite direction, hit home. Hush groaned as his head span and staggered under the force of the blow.

When Dick tried to hit him over the head once more, with more force so that he could smash him into the wall, the knife was tossed his way. Surrendering his chance to finish the fight, Nightwing dodged the blade. He was swift and graceful, and under any other circumstances he would be quite the sight to behold. But that meant he lost his advantage. With a loud, echoing clank, the blade fell to the bare floor.

“Give in and nobody gets hurt,” the vigilante said, turning back to his opponent.

Only to see the barrel of a gun.

“Funny,” Elliot smirked. “I was about to say the same thing.”

Dick paused, staring him dead in the eyes. Into those deep, blue eyes, so terrifyingly like those of his father. He kept his gaze fixed at the man, doing his best not to glance sideways and betray what was happening behind Hush's back.

His hand that was holding the gun was suddenly yanked downward and the wrist squeezed, making him drop the weapon. At the same time, an arm was wrapped around Elliott's neck and pressed against his throat, the sudden lack of breath making it difficult for him to struggle. A swift kick to the inside of his knee forced him down onto the bare floor.

“You underestimated me,” Tim said over Elliott's frustrated groans, holding his arm firmly around his throat. “My utility belt isn't all that I am.”

“So what are you going to do?” Hush managed, his voice raspy and somewhat pained due to the pressure on his larynx. “Choke me to death?”

Tim pressed his arm harder, making him cough. While the man was much larger than himself, seemingly able to match Bruce in raw strength, for some reason he did not fight anymore. Was it because he was weakened, because he lacked skill without a firearm, or because there was more to this than met the eye remained to be determined. The boy refused to acknowledge the possibility of being played, but the option remained that Hush let himself be beaten as part of some larger plan. And the idea of what it was exactly was both terrifying and amazingly logical.

“Not to death, no,” Timothy said, pulling himself back from those disturbing thoughts and feeling the man weakening further in his grip. He was starting to lose his balance even as he was kneeling. “Unconscious will do.”

It did not take long, mere moments, for Hush to finally slip into oblivion. Looking mildly amazed at how strangely easy it was to subdue him, and convinced that they were being played, Tim released him and let him drop to the heavy floor with a heavy thud.

“You alright?” Nightwing asked and reached into one of the many pockets of his suit for a first aid kid. He never carried much with himself, but a bit of gauze and a bandage would be just enough to keep his brother's wound from getting any worse.

“I'll live,” the boy nodded, but did not resist as the cut was quickly wrapped up. The wrapping was less than elegant, and he would probably need stitches to heal completely, but all of that was irrelevant. They still had an imposter to stash somewhere where no one would think to look, and from where he would not escape.

And as there were even more pressing matters at hand, as soon as he was done with the bandages, Dick knelt by Elliott and rolled him onto his back. He would be out for a longer while, so they still had more than enough time to restrain him. Grayson's agile fingers rummaged through any pocket they could find, and any other place in the man's suit that could have been used to hold something. The longer it took, the more determined he looked, his handsome features twisting in a frown that was very likely concealing fear.

“What exactly are you doing?” Tim asked, looking over Nightwing's shoulder to see just what was happening. The pain in his forearm did not really want to go away just yet, continuously reminding him that it was still there, but he tried hard to ignore it. Whatever the other vigilante was trying right now, it had to be important. For some reason Timothy's detective skills told him not to think that his brother came over just to rescue him from his peril.

“Looking,” Dick responded, as if that was not obvious by now. Suddenly a wide, very relieved and victorious grin crept onto his face and he turned to the boy, twisting something between his fingers. It looked very familiar, so much that it would be scary had it not been good news.

It was a flash drive.

“ _He_ had it?” Tim asked before he could stop himself. He suspected that Elliott is there for more than just a window of opportunity to replace Bruce Wayne. Things did not add up and the equation made no sense, but he was lacking that one piece of the puzzle that would let him make the connection between Hush and the Joker. Obviously, there it was, hidden in almost plain sight.

“All along,” Nightwing nodded in confirmation, that smug grin still present on his face. Obviously his idea of employing the help of the Riddler paid off. They both knew that they were probably going to pay that one way or another, sooner or later, but it was not their main concern at that point. Whatever Edward Nigma wanted to try, his efforts would be thwarted by the Batman.

Because he would return very soon.

 

Bruce Wayne was losing his mind.

He felt like he was stuck between two options, both of which were bad. He was just unable to decide what was worse. The Joker left him in the basement in such anger that Batman could only be afraid of what was going on in that twisted, layered mind of his. In the clown's head, everything made sense even when it did not, and as soon as someone did something he did not like, he would retaliate. And you never knew what that retaliation would be. This time around, the Knight expected him to send that recording to the public. That was what he promised at the very beginning of this whole business, this game that did not seem to have any rules at all.

If that was the case, Batman would lose everything. His reputation as a crime fighter would fall within minutes once people saw the tape. Some would think he was not as much on the right side of the law as he claimed, seeing that act from days ago as a way to punish his enemy. But most would see it for what it was, sick, perverted love. He would no longer be able to carry out his mission, and once his feelings saw the light of day, his family would turn away from him. His friends in the Justice League and his comrades in Batman, Incorporated would never listen to another word he says. He suspected that even the dog back home would not want much to do with him once it smelled the clown on his suit.

In this scenario, all that he would have left would be the Joker himself. The man he loved, and the man that loved him back, in a way that almost made him wish he was back with Talia or with Selina. It was obvious and very apparent that unless something changed soon, this mad relationship of theirs would get them nowhere.

He was really not sure if he could mend it in any way. And he was damn sure he would not be able to go on like this for long.

But the Joker did not say anything about punishing Bruce when he left. He mentioned punishing his family. Perhaps he had something else in mind? It was possible he figured that letting them see the recording was huge punishment for them, but it was equally likely that he had something else in store for them. In which case, the Bat could only be more afraid. Because this was the unpredictable option, the part where he did not know what could happened and felt his heart skip a beat as all sorts of possibilities ran through his mind, none any more plausible than the rest. What was the jester planning on doing to his children? To Alfred, his foster father? To Barbara?

Whatever was the case, he risked losing all that he cared for and being left with his insane lover. The man he was not sure he could fix at this point. So it was very much like the first scenario, with just one major difference.

Once his family saw the tape, they would turn away from him. But he could still try and figure something out to put the family back together if it fell apart. If they died, there would be nothing left.

So, all things considered, the first option was the one he would prefer. The problem was that he had no clue which one it would turn out to be, and that left him even more anxious. So much that he felt himself close to losing his mind out of worry. He even considered the option of freeing himself from the chains – not that it would be difficult, and the Joker knew it – and heading out despite the unfair, tenuous arrangement he had with his nemesis. Had he been the only one at stake, he would have done that by now. But he risked far too much.

He sat in his basement, wondering what next cruel joke was about to be said, and fought back tears.

And then the Joker came back.

 

The link to the Riddler was very much dead, and it was no wonder. Everyone who knew that the ex-inmate worked for them expected him to take a hike as soon as he delivers them the information they seek. It seemed almost obvious that Nigma helped himself to something while he was at it, but at this point, even Oracle was too busy to check security to find out which files were compromised, if any. Now that she had the recording, it was easier for her to do another sweep of the criminal data networks in search of other copies. Her previous partner in hacking insisted that the one drive they have found was the only one that existed, but Barbara knew better than to trust his word on this.

As she continued her search of the heaps of files, Robin and Nightwing had something equally important to do. Amusement Mile felt very unwelcoming, just as it had since that fateful day, all those years ago, when a pair of acrobats would fall to their deaths in a circus tent in front of the eyes of their very eyes and the man they did not know to be Batman. That fateful day that birthed the Robin mantle, and started Dick Grayson on his path to becoming what he was now.

Dick did not really want to look at that ruined amusement park, but he choked back his own demons so that he could help the man that needed him. The man that filled that gaping hole in his heart all those years ago, on that fateful day, and became his dearest father. Tim realized just how uncomfortable his brother must have been with all those memories surrounding him, but he also understood that it was really not the time to give in to their own pains.

They would go in, get their father, and get out.

The haunted house looked just like its name suggested, eerie and haunted. At this time of night, and this time of year, it was coated in mist that almost made them forget that everything around it was just decoration. The graves were not real and there was no one buried under them. The ghost that was stuck by a window on the top floor, no longer flinching out of sight due to a broken mechanism was not real either. Even the trees were artificial, but somehow, in this thick fog, it still could send chills up one's spine.

Or perhaps that was because the two capes knew what was lurking inside.

Before they got inside, however, they were forced to jump off the path they decided to take. Quiet swishes in the air and a disturbance of the mist showed that not only something was launched their way, but strongly suggested that they were darts. As the two of them jumped aside to avoid being hit – who knew what was in those things – laughter echoed across the park. It was high-pitched, shrill and so cold it made both Robin and Nightwing shiver visibly. Not only did it perfectly fit the atmosphere of the place, it was a laugh they knew very well and one that never, ever bode well.

Looking to its source, they saw that the Joker was looking down at them from one of the windows in the house's top floors. According to the scanners in their masks, he was alone, or at least the henchmen were not out in the open. Which was both a good thing and a bad thing. The good thing about it was that they had no extra people to deal with. The bad thing was that the Joker only exposed himself like this when he had something really cruel and really nasty planned.

“Hello, boys!” he called from above, the broad smirk on his face partly obscured by the mist. “Late to the party, are we?”

“Sorry, invitations must've gotten lost in the mail,” Nightwing called back, not raising his voice very much. He was always the one to talk a lot on missions, even in the middle of combat. It served many purposes, from providing extra insight into things and a point of view others might not have considered, through taunting his enemies and keeping them distracted, to masking his own fears.

And Robin knew that if he listened hard enough, he would hear his brother's heart pound with so anxiously it threatened to burst from his chest. They were both afraid of what the clown had in store for them, but neither would let it show. Just that Dick did a better job at it.

“Tsk, tsk,” Joker waved a scolding finger at them from above, and to their horror, they noticed that it was red even through the whiteness of the fog. His whole gloved hand was red, and both of them really hoped that was not what reason whispered in the backs of their minds. “Latecomers need to be puuuuniiiiished...” the jester half-sang and with a swift motion of his other hand, he tossed something onto the two capes below him.

On instinct, Tim and Dick moved away, letting that thing hit the ground. As it fell, it made a sickening, squishing sound. It could not have been a bomb or anything of the sort, not a vial of Joker venom or fear gas or anything like that. The sound it made clearly showed that it had to be organic, and even with their vision obscured they could clearly see that the thing was vaguely oval, very much red, and still coated in what must have been blood.

Robin heard himself utter a muffled whimper as his hand found its way to his mouth and covered it.

A human heart.

The clown laughed again, watching them stare at the organ in horror. It was delicious, their fear almost tangible around them, unspoken worries hanging in the air. He did not need to say a word. He knew exactly what their worst nightmares included and knew how to jolt those images, knew how to make the pain become real. He just tossed them a bone – or a different body part in this case, not that it mattered – and waited for their little minds to fill in all the blanks.

The human mind was an amazing thing. Show it a tiny dot and it will add the plane, the coordinates, something that it represents. Show it a few lines and it will make a triangle, with angles and lengths and all those neatly ordered things. Show it something from a bad dream and watch it construct worst possible scenarios around it, all of which end in nothing but disaster and tears.

Nightwing was always the cheerful one with something clever and quirky to say, and the Joker took immense pleasure in knowing that all of that was gone under the sheer weight and significance of what he just saw. He had no remark to make, nothing to say as he stared at the no longer beating heart and tried to push the obvious thoughts away. If that was the case, and he tried his best to believe it was not, it would be his fault. His alone for getting the stupid idea of employing the Riddler and having him found that goddamn tape. All his fault. His alone.

Robin was the more ordered of the two, the brains greater than perhaps those of the Bat himself. Always having a way out, always a plan B, always knowing everything about everyone. That perfection bored and sickened the Joker almost to death, so as he watched the boy whimper in terror at the gruesome sight, he hoped that it would jolt something in that perfect little head and pull a string that would unravel that sanity of his. Think of what that brilliance could do if order turned to chaos, if the boy had one really bad day.

“What have you done...?!” Nightwing finally called up to him, baring his teeth in fury. He felt the urge to jump up there floor by floor and beat that white, grinning face until it could not be recognized without a DNA test, but found that his muscles refused him. He was rooted in place, and glad that the lenses of his mask hid the tears gathering in his eyes.

The jester grinned down at him. “Answer yourself, birdboy! Or didn't you pay attention in biology class?” he asked, nonchalantly removing his gloves and letting them drop down to the ground as well. They fell near the heart, just as bloodied as it was, only adding to the gruesome sight. “Don't make daddy punish you for getting an F!”

Dick must have been trembling visibly by then, because as he opened his mouth to reply, a hand was placed on his shoulder. He turned to see Tim and his glare softened ever so slightly, mostly because he did not understand how his little brother could have calmed down so easily. Robin's expression was stern, but he no longer looked afraid, even if his face was still red with must have been tears.

Answering the unspoken question, he said: “It's not him.”

If either looked up then, they would have seen the Joker's grin curl down into a sneer. Nightwing allowed himself a blink. “How do you know?”

Knowing that he was wasting time explaining, and also knowing that the clown was not going anywhere, Robin decided to continue. Their opponent knew them very well, better than most, but Tim Wayne knew him in turn. Well enough to know that he would not make a move until he heard just what the boy had to say, out of curiosity as well as anger that his ploy might have been exposed.

“The Joker wouldn't kill him,” the Boy Wonder said. He finally looked up to see the increasingly angered expression, but he did not feel very intimidated anymore. The Joker tried to play them again, tried to use a weakness against them and make them beat themselves for him. But no, not this time. He would not let him.

Dick still found no real words to say, but he did not need to have any. His companion, his brother would tell him everything that he knew anyway, to show him that they had nothing to fear, that the sudden despair they felt should not really be there because this was not what it seemed to be. And he would tell him why, he would prove it to him to make him go on.

“He had many opportunities before,” Robin continued. “And he's never done it. He _can't_ do it, Nightwing. Go get Batman,” he added, suddenly changing topics, and reached for his grapple gun.

With a well-practised move he shot the rope up towards the Joker; he needed him occupied, and needed him out of the way. He did not ask nor wait for anyone's permission, he simply counted on the clown to flinch out of the way on instinct. And as predicted, the grappling rope wrapped itself around his wrist, and then Tim could jerk it hard, with all the strength he could muster. The Joker lost his balance and was inevitably heaved out of the window, down onto the roof of the floor below him, and further onto the hard, cold ground.

What he saw when he pulled himself back up, groaning in dull pain, was a bo staff.

 

Dick was already inside the house.

The moment Tim gave him the unexpected order, he listened. The kid might be younger and less experienced, but his head is most certainly screwed on straight. Nightwing learned to trust his little brother's instincts and hunches, and trusted him so blindly that he would go through with his plan even if he had no idea what it really was. What mattered at that point was getting Batman out of this godforsaken place and back home. He shuddered at the thought of what condition he might be in right now.

Thugs were waiting for him inside, of course. Hired help, some even with guns, but not as many as he would expect to keep the Dark Knight in check. Then again, the Joker looked really sure of himself; with the leverage he had, he must have figured himself untouchable. Fell into a false sense of security. Dick did not mind that; it made his job infinitely easier at this point.

As he pummelled his way through the artificially darkened mansion and its unnervingly creaking floors, he could not help but wonder why Robin changed topics so suddenly. What was there to be said that he did not want said? Something that would anger the Clown Prince of Crime, obviously. Or perhaps something that he, Dick Grayson, should have figured out by now. It seemed true that the Joker did not want the Bat dead. Everything that he did ever since he emerged from that chemical bath was aimed at drawing the Crusader's attention. His crimes and his actions seemed to have no real plan behind them, very little sense. They were so random you never really knew what the next step was, and how many would die.

All that just to make the Batman see him. To make him come over and beat the living shit out of the jester and his henchmen, yes, but that ensured that the actions were noticed. But why would anyone go to such extreme lengths and suffer so much just to have someone else look at them? It almost smelled of childish flirting, when pulling at a braid constituted a sign of affection and the rest was done through protective layers out of fear of cooties. People grew out of that kind of behaviour, though, usually around the age of thirteen.

But the Joker was not your average person. He was insane by all definitions. And the implications of that recording he blackmailed Batman with were not only very clear, but suddenly made a whole lot of sense. The jester was in love with his arch enemy, and has probably always been, wanting nothing more than to be near him even for a few moments and even if it meant broken bones. Even if it meant never being as close to him as he probably wanted.

It looks like he finally decided to do something about that last part.

Nightwing understood, and wished he had not.

Angry and not entirely sure what the anger was directed at, he needed to do a very quick sweep of the place. Leaving Robin to fight that murdering psychopath on his own could not have been a good idea at best, but their options were limited and they let Batman rot here for far too long. The only possible places where a prisoner like this – he did his best not to let his mind utter the words “sex slave” - could be kept were either the cellar or the attic. And since the former was closer to his level, that was where he decided to start.

Fortunately the thugs stopped pouring in at him. They were never of the smart kind, and so far it looked like he beat them all. A tiring thing to do, but not that much of a feat, he has gone against far worse in the past. But that was not the time to brag about anything, he needed to find the entrance to the house's basement.

As he ran through the halls in search of a downward going staircase, he caught a glimpse of something in one of the side rooms. The undefined, dull shade of grey, silken black and the distinct yellow made it very clear what he found – Batman's confiscated gear. Everything was there, piled up on an old, dusty table, save for the cowl. That came as a huge relief to Dick as he gathered the suit and the belt, realizing that it still held everything that his mentor took with him the night he left. It meant that the Joker did not disclose his captive's identity; maybe he did not even bother to learn it.

Perhaps things could still be okay, he told himself as he hurried down to the basement.

He almost dropped the gear he was holding when he saw Batman there. It had to be him; he had the cowl, even though the rest of his outfit came straight from an Arkham cell. A chain bound him to the wall and his hands, and even his feet to one another, despite the fact that he could slip out of them in a matter of minutes. But the Dark Knight did not want to shed his bonds. He looked weak, sitting by a pile of old, dirty pillows, hunched over and holding his right hand. When he looked up to see who came down to him, it was clear, even in the dim lighting, that he forced his expression to shift to that of lack of emotion. But Nightwing knew him better than that, and did notice that what his face was showing a split second before was pain.

Robin was right that the Joker did not kill him, and from the general look of the place it was very clear what he was doing to him all this time, but he still hurt him. And not just in that obvious way. Dick put the batsuit down next to his father and took his hands, not meeting much resistance. Bruce looked at him blankly, not saying a word, but his eyes were tired. He looked almost as broken as he did all those years back, when he literally could not stand, his back broken and his existence dependant.

Dick felt anger boiling in him as he beheld Bruce's right hand. There was a golden band on its finger, plain and just a little bit too small. It must have been uncomfortable to wear, but did not appear to have caused enough discomfort to make Batman sit there and fight back tears. But when Nightwing touched it, it felt warm, and suddenly everything was clear.

It must have been much hotter when it was forced on the finger. The Joker literally branded his pray with a wedding ring, as if that meant anything; as if it was a symbol that the Bat forever belonged to him, that no matter what happened from now on, he would remember how the jester bested him and made him his own. How the things they felt for each other were both as golden as the band, and as burning as the pain he felt from it.

As if it meant they were really married.

Without a word, Nightwing picked the locks an the cuffs binding his mentor's wrists and ankles together. The chain chimed and echoed through the nearly empty basement as it fell to the ground, and then Bruce just rose. Also not speaking, he dropped the clothes he was forced to wear all this time and put the suit back on. It felt almost like he was moving back into his own skin, refreshing and helped him remember that he really should not be here. That there were other, more important things for him to do than wallow in self-pity and self-doubt again. He did not even try to remove the ring as he slid his gloves on, most likely because he did not want to risk hurting himself more.

At least that was what Dick told himself. He really did not want to believe that the Bat might actually want to _keep_ that thing.

The eyes turned to him, and he could see them gleam even behind the lenses. Now that he was wearing the full suit, Bruce looked nothing like the hunched, broken man he was a few minutes ago. Nightwing felt relieved that his father was able to put his head in the game so quickly, and that they would be able to leave this place soon. However, he has seen this sort of thing happen to the Crusader so many times before he was well aware that this stoic pose and stern expression were meant to mask something dark and painful inside.

Batman was not okay, and things would never be the same again.

“Robin's outside,” he said, breaking the silence and answering a question he was sure would be asked sooner rather than later. “And so is the Joker,” he added quickly, and even though there was no reply, he knew just what Bruce was thinking. The man hurried past him and up the stairs, intent on helping the boy that was out there, alone, facing the most dangerous psychopath in all of Gotham.

 

They found the Boy Wonder leaned against one of the artificial trees and the Joker hanging from its branches, all tied with the trademarked rope. Tim smiled broadly as he saw the Batman emerged from the old house, but that expression faded as quickly as it showed the moment he noticed his mentor glaring. Why, he had no idea, and he thought he got used to it by now. Apparently, he did not.

“Did you call the cops?” the Knight asked, his voice sharper, and deeper than it used to be.

Robin raised an eyebrow. “No,” he said. What he did not say is that he wanted to postpone it until he was certain that there is nothing for the cops to see that would incriminate, embarrass or otherwise belittle the Caped Crusader. He did not need any bad press, at least not more than he was getting already.

“Then do it,” came the harsh order, and the boy obeyed, heaving a heavy sigh as he activated his comm. He did not want to incite any more anger in his mentor, even though he was not entirely sure just what caused that anger. But he was sure of one thing – it was a defence mechanism, a way of masking other emotions.

Batman stared at the Joker, dangling from the dark, artificial tree. He was of course unconscious, and that was a good thing. He would do nothing to further harm his former slave, and it made Bruce's decision that much easier. No matter how hard he would try, this could never work. Even if the jester some day, somehow, regained enough senses to be accepted back into society, this would probably never work. Most, if not all, of that thanks to the history they had together. Thanks to how much they hurt each other over the years.

Thanks to Barbara, to Jason.

Still feeling the sting on his finger, the Bat made his way out of the not actually haunted grounds, and the other two decided not to follow. He was free now, and would surely return home. But before that he would need some time alone, a _lot_ of time alone, and only after that would they approach him about the events of these past several days. Bruce could not push the thoughts away as he grappled from ride to ride, and eventually out of Amusement Mile altogether.

He loved the Joker, and the Joker loved him. That was it, all of it, and nothing more. He would always have the scar on his hand to remind him of that mad, insane bond they shared, and he would surely have dreams of those times he got as close to the clown as he wanted to be. Those times, those nights that left scars on his mind as deep as the ones on his body, and he briefly wondered if he could ever simply move on to another lover. He was never good at keeping anyone by his side for longer, but this time, things were even worse. A part of him was sad that he would probably never be able to make all this right.

But that was something he would need more time to deal with. Right now, no matter how much he hurt inside and outside, he had a city to protect. A city that has gone too long without him, and one that needed him. He had not been free for fifteen minutes and already he intercepted alerts and warnings from both media and the police. Something for him to do and get his mind off recent events, even for a moment.

Something about a new Red Hood in town.


End file.
